


Lavender and Lemon

by MistyDeath



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Community: hd_erised, Fairies, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, H/D Erised 2018, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Holidays, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Panic Attacks, Parent Death, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-27 07:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyDeath/pseuds/MistyDeath
Summary: "A trip. To research. Fairies," Draco deadpans."At least they're pretty common in England, eh?" He sounds so hopeful Draco wants to smack him. "You've only ever seen them in England, haven't you, Potter.""Haven't really been anywhere else, Malfoy," he murmurs.





	Lavender and Lemon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nearlyconscious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearlyconscious/gifts).



> I don't even know what to say about the intensity of this fest and the drive for it—but it's been a wild ride! I am super happy to have been a part of this year's and proud to have finally worked up the courage to join in in something I've followed for years now. A huge thanks to the HD mods for hosting this fest and being generally amazing—you've done great, and I can't wait to see what else there is in store! A enormous shout out and enormous glass of wine raised to J for being my wonderful alpha/beta and encouraging me beyond imagination to get this thing done—this fic wouldn't be here without you.
> 
> I hope that you enjoy it, NearlyConscious— it's been a dream to write!

The dripping walls of Azkaban have no sign that there is life outside them. In a sad, derisive thought, Draco realized in the first two weeks that being inside a cell is a terrible thing—regardless of how well he thought he has known the prison. It is a different experience—he thinks—being on the side of the cell that allows one to come and go freely. Everyone wants to leave. No one wants to visit. Everything pulls you away from this rock—the sounds, the chill, the smell. Everything reminds you not to come and to never want to return.

He still remembers losing all feeling in his body as they read the charges and voices erupted around them. Draco held himself tall throughout the whole ordeal, eyes fixated on the wall behind the people testifying against him, for him, and anything involving the Ministry's opinion of his family. He'd already been subjected to his father's trial, knew that at some point his father would be dying shortly, via a Dementor's Kiss—and he isn't sure if he'd been happier or sadder to know he'd be in Azkaban before his mother's trial would start. The only person he made eye contact with besides his solicitor had been Potter, and Merlin, that had been a mistake.

He'd seen Potter testify against his father, had bit back everything that threatened to fly out of his mouth—because Salazar knew there was no reason for the the prideful, haunted look on Lucius Malfoy's face. It looked forced—a show of emotion where Draco knew he'd already been plotting an escape, anything to gain the upper hand as he has before. Although Draco has seen it for what it is now—fear. Of loss. Of the inevitable. Of being held accountable for the hatred he let consume and kill others around him.

Draco's father wasn't alive but for longer than a day after his trial—and feeling Potter's eyes on him throughout his own, during which time his father was receiving the Kiss, well...that wasn't pleasant in any manner. 

Draco's emotions seeped back into him after the shock, and he realized there isn't anything to be done about them. It is him, and his cell, isolated from the public eye but not so much that he doesn't hear other prisoners break down during the night. Draco has all kinds of thoughts inside—painful, angry, scared, relieved—every emotion flying through him as time and time again his mind tried to trick him into thinking he is still in the Manor with the Dark Lord. So, when Draco hears that he has a surprise visitor before being hit with a cleaning spell so severe it nearly rips his skin from the force of it, he is confused. Even more so at the orderly's harsh hair cut job.

Draco is brought past other obscured cells, down a hall he doesn't quite remember walking down, to a room with a seat, and is instantly chilled by the wards doubling down and turning the air to ice. All the magic sucked itself out of the room, and he watches as the orderly sends a nasty smile his way from behind the wall. He briefly misses the shaggy hair that had grown to warm his shoulders. Draco feels more vulnerable than he has in a long time. That feeling intensifies as his visitor is brought to the glass door and allowed to enter the room. 

The woman that sits down across from him has to be a hallucination, and yet Draco can't think of a reason why his mind would conjure Minerva McGonagall across from him. Where before he looked upon her with distaste, now he can't bear to even look her in the eye—every terrible memory is dredging itself up in front of him. McGonagall seems to assess him for a moment before nodding at the guard to leave.

"Hello, Draco. I trust that you were not informed of my visit?"

Draco shakes his head before muttering out a shaky, "No." 

"That's good to hear. I imagine if you were prepared for this conversation it will have been infinitely more painful to have," she comments. "We will be reopening Hogwarts in a few weeks after various recovery operations and measures have been completed. In fact," she pauses, "the school has been ready for two months now, and thankfully the castle has not been compromised." Draco can feel the hairs on the back of his neck raising and he shivers, slightly. A twitch to the unknowing, but the movement is caught by McGonagall nonetheless. She raises an eyebrow.

"Well then, we can get straight to the matter." She brings out an envelope and when Draco doesn't reach for it, presses it into his hands. "All of those affected by the war have been offered a supplemental, near-trial year of sorts." Draco keeps his eyes evenly on the envelope in front of him. "This year will be far different than the last, and I imagine it will continue to be until the classes affected have cycled themselves out."

He can't help but notice that she's pointedly saying the opportunity is for those _affected_ by the war, not those that had a hand in starting it.

"Imagine my surprise when the roster readjusted and included your name, Draco." He looks up and is met with the darkest look he's seen cross the professor—turned Headmistress'—face. He draws himself back. "It is not the first name, nor I imagine will it be the last, to give me pause. I have waited this long because conversations with the board have been highly, shall we say, excitable," she pauses, "and the fact of the matter is that you are waiting out a conviction that may never come. They are using your sentence as an example to others who may still be sympathetic to the cause. The fact that you have not yet been convicted, but are being held here, is a grave concern to me. I refuse to sit by while another mind wastes away behind these walls because of that vile excuse for a human being's influence." 

With that, McGonagall stands up and walks over to his side, and Draco desperately wishes he could run. Looking down at him, she motions for the guard to come back with her other hand. "This is your last chance, Draco. You will not leave until they find evidence otherwise." 

"I'll go."

"You've not even opened the letter—I would think you've had enough of agreeing to things you have yet to fully understand." The scathing look shot at his left arm makes him bite his cheek to stop an instant retort.

"Forgive me," he says after a minute, "but if this is the offer I so blindly refused before," Draco finds himself looking up at her, "I have to believe that accepting it now has to be better than what I chose the first time around." It sounds reminiscent of his father and he hates himself for it—but it is the truth. Clearly McGonagall heard the allusion to Lucius as well, because her harsh tone bites out every word in a clipped monotone. 

"I will not tolerate any form of prejudice or bigotry in this school's revival. Do not make me regret this."

McGonagall leaves and Draco is escorted back to his cell with the unopened envelope. Once inside, he momentarily considers placing it under his pillow for a bad day, but he's had a shit time of recognizing how many days have passed. Draco brushes his thumb over the lettering, _Draco Malfoy, Azkaban_. Briefly Draco wonders if there isn't a more specific location due to security measures. Then again, it has been hand delivered to him so no owl would have been needed.

He breaks the seal and is surprised by a thrum of anticipation. Draco has never actually opened his Hogwarts letters—his mother always took it the moment the owl landed and seen to his supplies—so the thrill of being accepted into Hogwarts isn't something he's experienced before. His enrollment has been a given, as has everything else he'd experienced at Hogwarts.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall  
_(Order of Merlin, First Class)_

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for re-entry at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment, as well as the conditions and terms to which this re-entry is reliant upon.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July. 

Yours sincerely,  
**Minerva McGonagall**

Draco watches as the RSVP turns to a bright green stamp stating "TERMS ACCEPTED. ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN MADE FOR YOUR DEPARTURE."

MINISTRY of MAGIC  
_Ignorantia Juris Non Excusat_

Per requisitions statute to post-War regulations, the defendant in question, Draco Lucius Malfoy, will adhere to the following terms for the Time Served in Acquiescence:

I.The defendant's magic will be monitored via a Trace Brace. Should the defendant take actions that alert either the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or the appointed Supervisor of Secondary Sentencing, the contract is terminated effective immediately and will result in re-housing.  
II.The defendant is to remain on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry until the class term is complete. Secondary regulations are as follows:  
a. The defendant is subject to all rules and regulations enforced by the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
b. In the presence of, and only of, an appointed Ministry Official, is the defendant allowed to relocate.  
c. The defendant is subject to The Efficiency Administration Reparations community service during the term. Hours Required: 354 hrs  
d. Per the Reparations Taxation Act, all assets have been frozen pending further investigation. Please note that all materials necessary for your upcoming year have been placed on hold for you at Flourish and Blotts.

Draco reads the small contract twice and flips it over—there is nothing else written on it. He reads the estate papers and is surprised to see how many organizations have been donated to on his behalf. He realizes signing without reading the document has officiated the donations, and, while the balance remaining is nothing to scoff at, Draco is disturbed by the loss. Even if his mind doesn't want to recognize the fact that his father has been executed and his mother passed not long after, the weight of it has been ethereal, almost a ghost of a whisper that this document has brought to life. While he re-reads it again and curses its vague wording, he can't help but feel there is a lot more to it. He's never been able to adhere to school rules when Draco has _known_ the consequences, and feeling like a plaything never sat well with him.

Draco stuffs the envelope full once more and hides it under his pillow. He spends the rest of his day pacing and avoiding sleep as long as possible, anxiously watching guards pass by in shifts. McGonagall might have put hope in him, but he knows what happens when his eyes close.

\--

Someone is screaming—shouting voices wake Harry up. He starts, hand reaching for his wand and glasses immediately. Once his vision clears, Harry realizes that it’s happy yelly, if a bit snippy. Harry rolls out of bed and goes downstairs towards whatever commotion has just started his day.

Harry can hear Hermione pacing the kitchen area of his home. "—I can't believe it! I can't believe it—oh my gosh yes Ron yes we're going of course we're going "

"Hermione! Hermione will you—Harry! Stop her before she manages to blow whatever fuse that stupid letter has lit!" Confused at how on earth Ron is awake before him, Harry blinks and looks over by his stove. Hermione has finally stopped pacing and is now leaning against his counter, one hand holding a couple of envelopes while the other shakily holds onto a very familiar-looking piece of parchment. He looks over her shoulder.

"Hermione? Care to explain the screaming at—eight o'clock in the morning?" Even as the words leave his mouth, his eyes scan the parchment and see the Hogwarts emblem. "What's this?" 

Hermione laughs again, and lifts the parchment up a little so he can read it better. "We've been invited back, Harry," she says. "McGonagall's managed to get the school back up and running!"

Harry can feel the energy crackle in the air from her excitement. He take his envelope from her hand before throwing Ron his and having a proper read through of what is possibly the most exciting news he's heard in months. "Mate you can't possibly be thinking this is a good thing? Going back to school?" Ron whispers.

He looks up at Ron, who is holding his own letter at his side, looking incredibly dejected, and, if Harry reads the lines in his face right, sad. The weight of it hits Harry like a punch to the stomach. "Ron—hey," he sits on the couch across from him. "You know we don't…" Harry pauses. "Of course we want to go back—" he cuts himself off again at Ron's face. It has turned that pale sickly shade he thought was gone at least two months' past. 

"Oh, Ron, you can't possibly think that we'd have forgotten!" Horrified, Hermione turns to him. Harry can't blame her—but to jump to _that_ conclusion…

Ron is already shaking his head. "Of course, not…of course you wouldn't—who would? I mean, the three of us, we're all still a bit off, aren't we?"

"Can't really remember a time where we could be described as normal, Ron," Harry says. "Fairly certain we crossed that line the second we took on a troll. Or snuck out a dragon. Or dropped from between the legs of a three headed dog into a man-eating plant. Or really anything else," he continues. 

Ron scuffs the back of Harry's head with his letter. "Shut up, you," Ron says. "You know what I meant—hell—I'm pretty sure I'm the one we all thought would ignore the mental bit." He sits down and Hermione joins him on the couch next to Harry. "I know that McGonagall will have done her part to fix everything, and lord knows that woman would rather become a Death Eater than subject us all to that trauma again," Ron admits. "But are we really ready to face it?"

Harry watches a dozen or more people die or get injured in his mind's' eye. It still hurts. It still makes his stomach turn and skin feel too tight. Hermione saves him from dwelling on it. "Well, Ron, you can think of it this way—" she holds one of each of their hands and gives a quick squeeze. "We've all got terrible, horrible memories from those days. Two days in particular. And we didn't even go there for seventh year. Poor Seamus, Dean, Neville, Luna, Ginny—" Ron gives her a particularly hard squeeze and she grimaces. "They all endured a lot worse than we did on the daily. Even if we were gits at points and got on another's nerves outside."

They all share a look and give each other grim smiles. "So, I say, if they are willing to give Hogwarts a chance, I reckon we can at least show McGonagall strong support and work towards remembering the place that Hogwarts used to be, and can be for future generations, right?" Harry can't imagine not going back given the opportunity, regardless of however 'peaceful' this year has been. Although they’ve all managed to mourn their lost ones and get a relatively weak hold of themselves, it _is_ rough. They aren't wandering aimlessly, per say, but each has their own hesitations in moving forward after all the funerals and trials have concluded. 

Harry isn't becoming stir crazy, but if he has to endure another round of fan mail or attempt another interview for a job he is clearly just going to be handed, he might crack. He even had to have protective detailing put on Andromeda and Teddy after one particularly crafty paparazzo tried to break into her home. Never mind the random cracks at Ginny every other reporter seems to want a shot at. Harry is grateful they'd broken up if this is the level they stoop to. Even Ron has held a certain level of resentment for the treatment he has coveted for so long—a sense of privacy he might've been given for seven years' prior is suddenly gone. After whatever period the tabloids considered acceptable to leave them be—which Harry has put more than enough complaints in on his behalf—Ron and Hermione's relationship is dogged throughout newspapers like it is the hottest thing available. 

They're quite boring, and happy to be so. In fact, the three of them have become hermits in the last few weeks, barely leaving the house outside of family visits or the occasional meeting with friends. They may have rearranged more than half the rooms in Grimmauld because of it—and the busy work isn't really improving things in terms of perfectionism on Hermione's part. And even if Harry doesn't care for the elitism of testing, he'd much rather have shitty N.E.W.T.s and have to fight for a job he wants than be given anything for the sheer honor of it. After Harry looks at Hermione, he knows that was exactly what was on her mind. 

So, they need something new.

After another couple of minutes of holding hands, Harry clears his throat. Ron looks up from where he'd been staring at their joined hands. "So, I say on the count of three we vote. Majority rule" Hermione opens her mouth to protest, "—because I, for one, will rather be with you two either way." It is a small lie—yes, Harry does prefer Hogwarts—but Ron, if he says no, Harry can't imagine him alone again. If Ron seems to recognize this, Harry doesn't notice.

He watches as the other two clos their eyes and did the same. Giving Ron's hand a squeeze, he starts, "All right, on my count—three, two, one—" 

"Aye!" 

"Aye." 

"Aye."

\--

Harry walks through the barrier to Platform 9 ¾ after Ron with a heavy cart. The Weasley family has seen them off, and while Harry will be sad to not see their faces for some time, seeing Arthur and Molly is warming. There'd been a near-mass-media frenzy on the other side of it, and Harry had almost bumped into Auror security and the like as they lined the outer edges along the train. Blinded by the smoke of a camera, Harry is pulled along by Hermione towards a door. "They have no shame—I bet we'll see that in the _Prophet_ next week!"

They momentarily catch their breath inside the train hallway, only for Harry to notice a group of first years standing stock still in front of them, frozen. Harry doesn't have to hold his breath for an awkward reaction. "Um…hello? Would you mind letting us pass to the next compartment over, please?" Harry sees Ginny and Luna shoving their way forward and can't help the smile. Luna gives a tired smile back. "Hello, Harry. It's been what—four days since we last saw each other?"

"Too many, Luna. That's far too many," he answers. 

"Wow, Harry, way to make me feel jealous," Ginny throws out, a laugh bubbling out of her at Ron's outburst. 

"What—"

"Relax, Ronald, the door's been closed on that one for some time now. Unless you've been reading the _Prophet_ again." She glares, and under her gaze Ron barely wavers, throwing the door to the nearest available compartment, and settling in. Harry isn't sure if they'd all been this close beforehand, but after the train leaves the station he realizes a fair amount of people have squeezed themselves in together.

After they have sat down, Neville, Seamus, Dean, Padma, Parvati, and even Lavender, have managed to squeeze themselves in. "Is this everyone, then?" Dean leans against the open door and nods to the group, "Have you lot seen anyone else from our year?"

"There's quite a few Ravenclaws—Terry, Anthony, Lisa, Sue, Michael, from what I can see—" Padma comments thoughtfully. "Of course, it will be rather strange to be a member of Dumbledore's Army and _not_ come, wouldn't it?" Harry hums in agreement with several others, thinking that it will be rather obvious when the housing arrangements will be revealed.

As if reading his mind, Seamus pipes up. "Anyone wonder where us ancients are going to be?"

"I believe that will be part of the new additions to Hogwarts, Seamus," Hermione says. "Or they might make use of the…lack of a necessity for the third floor being banned again. Actually, were there any parts of the castle that weren't affected?"

"Most of the dungeons—Slytherin and Hufflepuff dorms, the kitchens…I can't remember where else everyone is sent," Ginny bites out. "Even the forest got hit." Harry hears a couple of agreements, while either Lavender or Parvati go into a detailed account of what they remembered. 

Normally he would've listened, but the lull of the train’s movements is slowly sending him to sleep with the combined warmth of everyone in the room. He drifts off to someone mentioning a couple of Slytherin students coming back. 

When Harry wakes up, the compartment is significantly less populated, with only a handful of Gryffindors left. The realization sent a chill down his spine. "Where'd everyone go?" he asks the room at large. Ron answers by tossing a Licorice Wand his way. "It was getting a little stuffy, and I think Seamus and Dean rallied the twins and Lavender to go check on some of the younger students."

"Dean did say they were the best looking in our year that one time," Harry muses. 

Ginny coughs. "Well, I guess it's a good thing I was a year below."

"Are you still, though? What the hell are we, Gin?" Harry sits up and sees Hermione has also passed out along Ron's side. He shrugs at Harry's look and continues tearing into a Licorice Wand. 

"I don't know, Harry. Maybe we'll all be sharing classes. Although I can't imagine any professors will be happy with that."

Harry has to agree, although there is still the mystery of who might finally take the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Hermione had a right fit going through the books assigned and trying to figure out what kind of person they'd be dealing with this year, but it was up in the air. All the materials were rather basic, and Ron had shared the fear that it could be another Umbridge. Harry had thrown his leftovers at him in response. 

After the sun has set and they've all changed, disembarking the train for a final first time feels strange to Harry. The three of them watched the train pull away with a vague sense of unease, but once again Hermione gripped their hands, and had given Harry a particularly hard squeeze for the strange symbolic realization. 

Harry watches as Ron and Hermione are pulled away on a thestral carriage with Ginny just in front of him as he gets into one with Neville and Luna. "Just like last time, eh, Harry?"

"Except there's no Mimbulus Mimbletonia squirting something all over us," Harry replies. Neville rushes to defend the plant, but is silenced by whatever he sees over Harry's shoulder. 

He turns to see Hogwarts—lights shining as brightly as they has in first year. Every tower has been restored, and somewhere in the back Harry can see a column or two he doesn't recognize. But the lights and the glow of the carriage lanterns lighting the forest path feels welcoming for the first time in years. "It looks gorgeous," he says in awe. 

"Yeah, yeah it does, Nev."

He feels as though he were eleven again, and that's when Harry decides that this will be the year. For what, he's not sure yet, but he's going to make it good.

After entering and following the crowds towards the Great Hall, tightly packed in with other eighth years and keeping his eyes trained on Ron and Hermione like his life depends on it, Harry's happy to see that there are more people than ever inside.

Specifically, more kids. Kids, that with a quick glance, Harry sees are survivors of the War. A lot of them look tired, some look excited and happy to be back, but he's not sure if he feels right about the younger years—looking over their shoulders at every loud noise, holding hands tightly and staring at the crowded tables like they're missing someone. 

Right. And as he glances over at the Gryffindor table once he's sat down, he shoots a few of them a smile. Seeing them look away frightened, like they had when he was in second year, hits him somewhere deep.

Harry's barely has time to register Neville whispering concerns about the Slytherin table looking disturbingly bare before the doors swing open. The noise spooks everyone, but Harry's heart stops beating a hundred kilometers an hour at the sight of Professor McGonagall. She's Headmistress, and she still wants to lead the first years into their first impression of Hogwarts. That thought puts a smile on his face, and he's not surprised to see Hermione's and a fair few other's smiles turn watery. 

As usual, Harry tries his hardest—alongside Ron—to pay attention what Professor McGonagall is saying, but fails to hear anything past what makes him uncomfortable. It is beautiful, but welcoming in a way that welcoming a friend back after a hospital visit is, rightfully hopeful and optimistic at the turnout, but filled with a cautious pain no one wants to mention. What he does catch, however, are her comments on the student population.

"As we begin the Sorting and welcome this new era of wizards and witches brimming with potential, I'm sure you have all noticed an increase in the student body size. This is the first year after quite the painful time." She pauses, carefully glancing around the hall. Harry doesn't miss her glance their way before she continues, "And to start strong, we are to welcome both the class that should have started the year before, and this year's class as well. Although I'm sure other international schools have helped shorten the gap, I am more than happy to welcome any student worthy of receiving a Hogwarts education," McGonagall explains with a welcoming smile. Then she turns to the new faces that Ron's been whispering in Harry's ear about. 

"As your new Headmistress I am proud to introduce to you two new professors—Professor Klefter is to take over my position as the new Transfiguration Professor, as well as the Head of Gryffindor House." She waves her up, and the woman with bright red hair stands before waving at the students and then promptly sitting down. Even though Harry feels betrayed, as do many of the other students from prior years from the whispering that goes across the table, he knows there's nothing she can do otherwise. 

"And I will also like to welcome the new Professor Hatch, who's to take over as the new Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts." A tired looking man Harry hasn't noticed before stands up and gives a wave, much the same as Kleft, and promptly sits down. And although he seems to try for the tradition of staring Harry down, Harry's pleased to find he turns away without Harry feeling anything in his scar for once.

They did say they needed something new, he thinks bitterly. There's nothing special about Klefter, or Hatch, so for now it's just something he's sure Hermione will whisper about for days. 

As McGonagall starts the call for the first student to get Sorted, Harry's unsurprised to hear himself and the entire school cheering for the first student, a Hufflepuff, to get Sorted. The poor girl looks startled at the noise level but seems happy to sit down amongst the cheering students welcoming her. The same goes for the first Gryffindor, a boy who can't be taller than four feet, stumbling his way to a cheering group of twelve year olds that seem to call to him. 

The first Slytherin child Sorted looks terrified. And not in a way that a child that's just been Sorted into their Hogwarts House should look—he looks legitimately scared, skinny as hell and even if he's a pureblood, that's not something that should happen. There's the slightest hesitation, and then, with even Slughorn following along, the Hall starts clapping. It's a muted affair compared to the rest, but those that returned—Zabini, Parkinson, the Greengrasses, Bulstrode, and a fair other amount of other faces Harry recognizes but can't name—clap carefully. 

"That's an omen if I ever heard one," Ron whispers to Harry.

"That was almost me, mate," Harry hisses back at him. 

"Because you had a great Evil git inside you."

Neville coughs. "Can we go one year without mentioning bad things, just one? Or just a night, really, that's all. This is supposed to be a _good_ night."

\--

They were never told where they will be staying, so Harry's paying close attention to McGonagall while they walk behind her to their new quarters. He's smiling at familiar portraits that wave at them as they go along, and taking note of a couple of places that still have empty walls. Harry's turning his head so much he doesn't notice McGonagall walking them towards the end of the corridor and almost crashes into Dean in front of him. Now that he's gone and bumped someone, he sees it's the third floor corridor. 

McGonagall turns around, and she is clearly about to announce something when he blurts out, "You're joking." 

No one in their year is looking thrilled about the decision either, more than aware of what used to be inside the corridor thanks to Harry's misadventures. He can see Lavender in particular looking at the door like it's a death sentence. However, because Harry's got a giant mouth, he's the one shown the severe look.

"No, Mr. Potter, I am not," she says with a smile. "I think you'll find it's much better off than you left it." 

She leads them in without another word, through the portrait of a Greek goddess Harry doesn't recognize. Her face, warm and welcoming, is being stared at lovingly by occamies nestled around her, faces poking out of a vast crop-filled field looked over by a sunset.

What's before them is not the dingy labyrinth of strange horrors that they left behind as kids.  
It's a welcoming sight, large and open, with a variety of different furniture offerings. The floor's a dark brown tile covered by four Hogwarts Crest rugs that appear to shimmer and change to scenery of the grounds throughout. Harry's walking over the trees by the lake from the looks of it now, a little mystified by the fact that it looks as if he's walking on water. A set of magnificent windows open out into what Harry thinks is the back edge of the Quidditch Pitch, which he can see Seamus and Terry trying to investigate already. 

There's certainly no trap door any more, although the three of them stand precisely where they remember falling into the Devil's Snare. Ron taps his foot repeatedly on the ground, like he doesn't believe her. The rug has currently set itself to be the kitchens.

"Remember how they said the Chamber was closed and all that, and then somehow the first time I'm kissing Hermione is in front of a giant bloody basilisk skeleton covered in sewage water?"

"Ron, hush, there's nothing there anymore—look." She shoots an _Alohamora_ at the floor. Nothing happens. "If that's all it took in first year—

He laughs, wrapping an arm around her. "You think they'd have learned by now." 

"Oh! What luck!" Hermione turns to where Padma and Lavender are giggling by a scroll on the wall. "What's that?"

"Dorm arrangements—we're set to be together again! Well—looks like you're with Hannah!"

Hermione gives a small "oh!" but Harry can see her relief splash across her face—she'd not had the best time with the other Gryffindor girls from what he can remember. Curious, Harry pushes Ron aside after he's gone and run to the list, laughing.

Harry's only just begun to scan it to see the arrangements when the Headmistress approached him. "Mr. Potter, if I can have a word with you about your arrangement in my office?"

He turns to face her, full and definitely on his way to wanting to pass out. "Huh?"

He hears Ron nudge his way forward and come to his side. "Harry your name isn't on the list—what's going on?" That answers one question as to why McGonagall is standing there. Harry is about to ask the same thing.

"Mr. Weasley, I assure you, you will find out in due time. Mr. Potter, if you will?" 

Harry motions for Ron to go on without him, and nods at Hermione's questioning glance that obviously he will tell her later. "Certainly, Professor." He follows her out the entrance. One year, that is all Harry is asking for, one year where he doesn't feel like the whole room is waiting to see what will happen to him next.

It is fairly late so the pair don't meet anyone on the way around the castle, only a ghost. After they arrive at the gargoyle entrance to the Headmistress' office, she pauses and turns to him with a serious look on her face. She is clearly stressed. "Is something the matter, Professor?"

"Only if you deem what I ask of you to be a problem." 

Harry supposes it is a rather large question given the first night. "Alright, is there something the matter with the dorm rooms? Are there not enough functioning spaces for the students?"

This is either the completely wrong thing to say or the right one, because Harry is met with a fond look he's taken to enjoy seeing on her face. "Wonders never cease that you were not sorted Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter." Or maybe it is a condescending look. After another moment she collects herself and begins again.

"Mr. Potter, what do you say to the Slytherin housemates you find yourselves saddled with?" Harry stares at her, wondering if it is a test. "Don't worry, let me rephrase myself—do you agree with providing the entirety of your class a second chance at an education, regardless of their affiliations in the matter?" Harry does not know how long it takes him to recognize what she means, but it probably is timed with the ringing that starts in his ears. "I guess silence is the best response I can hope for, Mr. Potter. Do feel free to let me know when the second reaction begins, because, I, unlike our late Headmaster, am not a fan of my personal belongings being destroyed."

Harry laughs unintentionally. "I don't believe Dumbledore was a fan of it either, Professor." He isn't sure what he's feeling, but it isn't good. "Can I ask why?"

"I refused to let a horrid memory control who I can or cannot accept into this school. Coincidentally the period in which the Minister's new system operates allowed the sentencing to lapse. One has to wonder how he would have let that happen to a Death Eater, hmm?" 

Harry doesn't feel like reliving the night of Dumbledore's death, nor did he want to rehash this debate instead of sleep. "I'm guessing this isn't a run-of-the-mill assignment, is it?"

"No, it is not. There are severe consequences to be had if this fails. But of all the students available for it, I trust that you will be the one mature enough to handle it."

"Historically that isn't the most accurate statement, Professor." 

She sends him a reproachful look. "We don't look to the past anymore, Potter. Now. Shall we collect your dorm mate and get out of this cold?" 

Harry sees no way out of it, and really, he put some thought into it while standing in the ice-cold hallway with only the Headmistress to hear him. With a harsh, pained breath leaving, he nods. 

Harry notices the stairs are now moving stairs after almost flinging himself into the wall. "Mind your step." _Right!_ Two glances around place Draco Malfoy in a far-off chair against the offices' main room. Two cups of half-finished tea sat at the table next to him. "Draco, thank you for waiting."

"Professor…Potter," he says. "I take it I'm to be escorted back, then?" Malfoy's question doesn't hold the malice Harry expected, but, then again, his voice seems drained of life. When neither Harry nor McGonagall responded, the young man stands up, a searching look on his face, and Harry feels as if Malfoy is trying to discern if he is real or not. The rage he felt earlier quickly turned to a sickening feeling in his stomach. 

McGonagall quickly motions between the two of them before taking her seat at her desk. Harry notices that Malfoy is still watching her every move. "That's correct. Mr. Potter will bring you back to the eighth-year quarters. That will be all, gentlemen." 

Malfoy makes for the stairway, and after a sharing a brief assessing look with Harry, begins to descend. Harry is on the second step when he hears the Headmistress call out. "Ah! Mr. Potter—do give Mr. Malfoy his wand back when you get the chance." 

Harry has nearly forgotten about it, and he'll have to Floo back to Grimmauld to get it. "Yes, Professor. Good night."

At a loss for what to say, Harry leads Malfoy towards the dorms. Thankfully the pair doesn't run into any Prefects, because for the life of him, Harry wouldn't have known how to explain the situation. He is still thinking about how to explain it to the group that will be sharing living quarters with Malfoy. Even if he is still walking the halls as if in a dream, Malfoy is apparently thinking the same thing. 

"Potter," he says. "No one else has been made aware of this, have they?" His voice lets out a small tremor at the end and Harry realizes the dream-like stance Malfoy has held is more than likely pure fear.

"No."

"Hmmm…for all that McGonagall complained about Dumbledore giving you preference…" he trails off. "It's a bit like leading a pig to slaughter, eh?"

Harry swallows thickly and turnes to face him while they walked. "Funny, Snape said the same of Dumbledore. Although that is in reference to Voldemort, not a couple of nineteen-year olds. Pretty big difference." 

Malfoy considers this with a cool glance towards him, and nods. "All right, that's fair." He stands alongside Harry when he pauses at the portrait hole and eyes it warily. Harry gives him a few seconds to relax before saying "Sugar quills," and going through the opened portrait. Unsurprisingly, there isn't anyone in the common room, and even if Harry finds himself able to relax, Malfoy is still surveying the room like he expects someone to attack him. "All right, that's another problem for tomorrow. C'mon then."

Harry opens their room on the third floor and goes immediately to change. He throws open his trunk with a flick of his wand and is halfway to throwing on his sleep shorts when he remembers Malfoy is in the room. Harry turns and sees that he simply sat on the bed and is sitting there, looking as lost as he had in McGonagall's office.

"Er—listen, Malfoy—your wand—"

"You can give it back in the morning if you'd prefer. I'd much rather sleep than fight over my willingness to murder you." 

Harry opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he is able to come up with a response. "I didn't mean it like that," he insists. "I _don't_ —stop assuming shit." Malfoy watches him with a disbelieving look on his face. "Like we discussed earlier, no one knew you were here. That includes me. I still have the hawthorn wand—it's just at home. I can get it in the morning."

Malfoy doesn't have anything to say to that, so Harry turns away to get into bed. He closes his four poster curtains with a flick and is out before he can think of anything else.

\--

Harry's sleep is short lived. No light comes in from between the curtains, so momentarily he considers going back to sleep. Then he hears the soft snoring coming from the bed across from his and wakes up entirely. After checking the clock next to his bed, Harry dresses quietly and makes sure to lock the door to the bedroom behind him. 

He was Flooing back home from Hogwarts not twelve hours after arriving, at 4 AM nonetheless, Merlin. Harry slides into the side of his sofa with a pained grunt before he springs up and makes for his drawing room. Thankfully he remembers exactly where he put it, because the Trials haven't been kind about the situation. After some debacle of whether or not to destroy Malfoy's wand, the Wizengamot had been forced to let Harry take it back until other evidence could be provided against him. Yet another reason why Harry feels McGonagall should have notified him earlier, but when does anyone ever pay attention to what he wants? 

Either way, Harry Floo's back almost immediately after, eager to shower and fall asleep until breakfast later. He is finally able to get a good look at the common room, and makes a mental note to try out the reading nook overlooking the Quidditch pitch later. It will make a terrible place to study, he thinks. 

When Harry walks into their room, Malfoy is sitting up, and he visibly startles at the door opening. "Good morning," Harry says. He closes the door and sits on his own bed. "can't sleep?"

"…Not really, no." Malfoy looks at the wrapped wand in Harry's hand. "You went and got it, then?" Harry nods and unwraps it. He looks at it for a second before pointing it in Malfoy's direction. "Go on, then."

Malfoy scoffs. "You really don't beat around the bush, do you, Potter?" 

Harry shakes his head. "Never have, really. Now go on—nothing to stop you from a simple Disarming Charm." The way Harry says 'simple' seems to light some sort of fire under him, because the next second Malfoy's fingers are snapping and the wand is flying out of Harry's hand into his. Harry watches as he tries out a few simple spells, several reminiscent of first year, as if he can't believe he is doing it again. 

"Thank you."

"You did it, not me," Harry replies. He then leaves Malfoy to his own devices and falls back asleep, whatever stress that has ingrained itself in him slowly seeping out of him. 

When he wakes up again, there is sun streaming into the room this time. He rolls over onto his side and sees Malfoy is at a desk, writing up a storm. "You still haven't left yet?" 

Malfoy pauses and drops his quill back into the well before he looks at him over his shoulder. "Left?"

"For breakfast?"

"Oh. No." Malfoy turns back to what he is doing, and Harry figures that is the end of the conversation. After Harry has shot an ironing spell at his clothes, he goes to brush his teeth. He is incredibly wrong, however, because the sound of incoming voices has them both on alert and has Harry running out of the bathroom to intervene.

Ron pushes open the door and Seamus, Dean, Neville, Hermione, and Lavender shove themselves in with less than a word's notice. "Harry! Give it up! Time to check out the master sui—"

In what before has been a rather spacious room with only the two of them, the additional six people significantly reduce the feeling. Harry guesses the shock and general negativity brewing in the space doesn't help, and neither does Malfoy's frozen body acting as if he hasn't noticed, or doesn't care to notice, the Gryffindors. "What the ruddy hell is _he_ doing here?"

Malfoy doesn't answer, so Harry walks over to block the group from crowding him even more. "This is the arrangement McGonagall was talking about last night. Forgetting past differences and moving forward and…well, erm—" Harry stops talking. There hasn't been much more of an explanation from McGonagall. He throws his hands up in defeat. "I don't have much of a say in it, everyone."

"I thought this was going to be the one year you did, Harry," Ron gets out. 

Harry sees that Hermione has her hand on Ron's, covering his wand. Neville throws a dirty look at Malfoy but doesn't move. Lavender immediately leaves, hand over her face in disgust with Dean chasing after her. 

"So, did I," Harry says. "But—let's go eat rather than hash this out here, eh? This is my space too, I don't need you lot destroying it because of him."

With a little persuasion and a shove or two, Harry leaves with the crowd for breakfast. It takes more than a quick hex to get Seamus to back down, but eventually they are leading the way down. The relief he feels is palpable.

"What the hell is McGonagall thinking with that stunt—letting a—a Death Eater back into the castle? He's Marked, Harry!" The fact that Ron chooses to yell at him, as if it is his fault, bounces right off Harry.

He walks through the crowds quickly with the group. "I don't know, Ron. Something about the sentencing being a scam by the Ministry—they can't find anything to tie him to an actual conviction."

"You've got to be bloody kidding me!"

"I'm not Ron—you know I'm not. I told you all the night it happened—Malfoy didn't kill Dumbledore. Snape did." He is trying to keep his voice down in the hopes that no one else will hear them. 

"I hate defending him but I've done more damage to him than he has to me—" he holds up his hand at Seamus' protest, "— and we'd all be bloody well buggered if his crazy arse hadn't thrown the Elder Wand back to me." Harry ignores the dark look Lavender shoots him before she moves to go sit next to the twins. When Harry sits down across from Hermione and Ron, he's only gone for a piece of toast before they are on him as well.

After he listens for a few minutes, Harry's tiredness gets the better of him and he bites out a sour, "I'm not his bloody keeper, you want to have a go at him, be my guest." 

Hermione watches Seamus and Dean hurry away to sit down away from them with a blank look on her face. Hand still holding on to Ron's, she helps herself to some eggs and piled food on Ron's plate as well. "Eat, Ron. It's Saturday—they're going to be sending out the time tables soon enough. You'll have plenty of time later to obsess over Malfoy." Ron laughs. "I'm not obsessing—I'm bloody well pissed."

"He's been in Azkaban for over a year, Ron," Hermione presse. "That's a long time to sit in solitary for something you haven't even been convicted for." 

"He's got the bloody Mark! Everyone knows how Death Eaters got the Mark!"

"And his is an easy case to argue, even if the Ministry is aware of those acting under the Imperius—all our testimonies actually helped kill the case against him." Ron's fork pauses in front of him and he drops the sausage back on the plate. "Aw hell—we did, didn't we?"

Harry nods, becoming more and more tired of the subject as it wears on. Dean, Neville, and Seamus are sitting near them and seem to be having one of their own debates regarding the matter, but Harry can't see any of them doing more than punching Malfoy. Well—no. They wouldn't do anything.

\--

After a breathtakingly long shower, Draco has taken advantage of the fact that most students are at breakfast to take a trip to the owlery and send off his mail orders. After watching the owl fly away, he races to the kitchens to kip off something from the elves before he is seen. That conversation proves difficult, old habits die hard, but he manages to be polite enough. It has also given him insight into some of the changes in the castle, even if the Hufflepuff and Slytherin dorms were still there. But where Draco has often found solace in the cool enclosure of the dungeons, now the unavoidable chill and lack of windows wrack him. 

Draco no longer feels empty with his wand on his person. The wood feels cool to the touch, but just the slightest contact helps chase away any cold remnants of Azkaban's magic barriers. 

"I told you I wasn't hallucinating this morning, Blaise." Draco freezes, one foot in the hallway towards the entrance. "Draco really is back." Seeing Pansy and Blaise pull themselves out of the shadows has always been something of a joke between them. Now, Draco has other concerns. Association alone will look suspicious, but then again, these were maybe half of the Slytherins allowed back. Which, thinking back on their class, is a high estimation.

He nods in recognition, and keeps his eyes to the ground. "Oh, don't give me that look, Draco," Pansy simpers. "You of all people can't even begin to question our right to be here."

"I never did, Pansy. Although after your stunt to give up Potter in a second, I thought McGonagall might have had second thoughts," he guesses. 

Blaise chuckles at that, and his laugh echos off the walls. "How were the bigger and better things, Draco?" Draco glares, and Blaise shakes his head. "Not so much better, eh? I'd told you for years that following your father was a bad idea. Best to avoid the mixed blood than be accused of spilling it."

"Charmed as always, Blaise." His indifference has always irritated Draco to no end, but now the moral high ground is in his hands and Draco hates Blaise for it. "Pansy, I'd suggest you do the same and avoid it all together." Pansy takes offense to that.

"Please tell me this isn't going to be another year of you skulking around corners, Draco," she hisses and rushes him. Draco is amazed he doesn't back up. "We might've come back because it is the only option—but you've already one foot in the grave, darling." 

He's lost his need for mind games the second the Dark Lord had gone inside his head, and says as much.

“Don't kid yourself, and don't assume that your influence holds anything over any action I take." She smiles, deadly and cunning. "You aren't an introvert, never have been. You need us."

The hall clocks ring and Draco is saved from having to respond to her when the crowds fill in. He ignores the stares, and with a curt nod at the two of them, goes to meet with the Headmistress for his time table and whatever community service he needs to arrange. 

\--

After, Draco reviews his time table. He finds that he'll still be able to take the N.E.W.T. level courses for Transfiguration, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Arithmancy. However, his community service list has to be wrong. According to it, his first three months of service were only to be spent tutoring first and second years in Transfiguration.

"You want me to—to tutor first and second years? Isn't this a little…well, simple? Surely this can't be all I'm supposed to do." 

"Mr. Malfoy. I seem to recall you having a particular aptitude for it, and there is no reason not to continue, particularly as a refresher for the exam." The Headmistress is busy copying down seven other time tables, and Draco can not help but feel properly chastised by her cold tone. "All other eighth years will be joining the seventh years in this venture, Mr. Malfoy. It will not appear as if you are participating in anything more than what is required of the rest, even if yours holds a different weight."

Draco folds the papers and brushed his thumb over the parchment thoughtfully. "And, do parents know that—"

"That I am allowing the salutatorian of the eighth-year class to teach their students, yes. Yes, they do. Whether they work out the inference or not is their issue with me, and not you, Mr. Malfoy. As I said before, take this opportunity," she taps the scrolls in front of her, "and do not make me regret this." The scrolls tie themselves shut and fly off. Draco follows suit, and once again feels as if he is in a dream. Tutoring younger students will be fine—if they are able to follow through, that is. Even if Draco doesn't have any of his old school books, he supposes borrowing the texts from the library will work well enough for that aspect. 

Thinking about classes makes him cringe. No matter how well he has performed previously, Draco will be working backwards from year one to find any common ground with the professors. That thought settles his plans for the afternoon. He'll spend the afternoon in the library. That will put him safely out of any confrontations, and if he works hard enough, will move him forward in figuring out what to do with himself that year.

Knowing that Pince would rather set herself on fire than let him sign anything out, Draco gets to work copying switching techniques and reversals. He finds it surprisingly difficult to try and translate it to something a first year will understand, but then again, Draco has always been for memorization and demonstration, not methodology. If he can figure it out in his own way, it is easy to convince someone else Draco knows what he is doing. It is another matter entirely to teach that train of thought—which Draco supposes is the entire reasoning behind the tutoring projects. Once satisfied, he throws himself into getting ahead on N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration and Charms.

Draco feels a right swot, but there aren't many appealing alternatives.

His plan turns to shit an hour or two after he's returned from yet another kitchen venture. A couple of first years are wandering through the library and generally making a giggling mess of the stacks. He isn't angry, per say, but it does get irritating after the thirtieth gasp followed by some muted aws and ooohs. Draco thrums his fingers across the used copy of _Reinvented Uses of Charms Long Lost, Vol I._ only another handful more before he gives up and goes to talk to them about proper library etiquette.

"Really, Clara—I don't think that you should—Oh!" So, a couple of first year Ravenclaw girls are the culprits. 

Glancing over them quickly he sees they are Muggle-born, because for the life of him he doesn't see a Twenty Eighth trait in sight. "As fascinating as I'm sure the library is for you, do you—"

"Get away from them!" Draco pauses. Before he has time to assess whoever yelled, Draco feels rather than hears the inevitable Pince reprimand and grabs his things, younger years forgotten entirely. _"Get out! All of you!"_

He can't even go to the blasted library without finding hell. 

\--

Harry puts the time table to the back of his mind as easily as Ron did. After discovering the two of them will be joining Padma and Ernie in tutoring Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry laughs. Ernie even came over not long after they read it and tells him it's the best assignment he can think of.

"Just like the old days, eh, boys?"

"Merlin, I hope not," Ron has a dark look on his face. "But yeah, not a bad crew to have for whatever this bit's supposed to be." Padma also throws them a rather merry goodbye on her way out arm in arm with Lavender. "I guess it only took a couple of years to sort out the disaster that is the Triwizard."

"Don't talk about that—ugh! Those bloody dress robes still haunt my nightmares more than the brains, Harry!" He finds it hard to debate Ron on that. Hermione, still fretting over her own assignment to Transfiguration, seems to have half a mind to disappear into the library when Ron drags her over. "What are you already stressing over, Hermione?"

She looks up from her scrolls. Harry peers over her shoulder and winces at the number of subjects listed out, but gives a tired laugh when he sees that Hermione had already begun some sort of study plan. "I'm not stressing, Ron. I'm planning! Parvati's just left and says that she'd be fine with starting on this next week, which gives me just enough time to figure out possible methods to use, but we still don't know who the third person is! I suspect the two of you've got Defense for the tutoring, then?" 

Hermione sighs and continues scribbling away until Ron snatches her things away from her and suggests that the they all go down to the lake to enjoy themselves. Even as she frets under Ron's arm on how she still can't believe she's spread her skills so thin, Harry can't help but envy her for what must have been the thousandth time. Being known for Defense is great, and Harry will certainly jump at the chance to teach it again, but he can't help but wonder if this is just a paved way into doing the same thing he's been doing his whole life. Ron doesn't seem particularly bothered, but he agrees with Harry that it will be different with so many students gone. 

As the heat seeps into him, Harry sees that the Quidditch pitch is primed for the season, and he feels a small thrill run down his spine. He nudges Ron on the shoulder and pointed. "Even if we can't play this year we've got the best spot in the house. You see that window to the left of the right most hoop?" Ron nods. "That's our dorm."

"Wicked. Now, do we tell anyone else?"

"Not if we want to watch!"

Ron shoots him a sly look and nods. He seems pretty content to enjoy the first weekend relaxing, and Harry can't agree more.

After a couple of hours lazing about, Hermione convinces them they needed to move—do something, anything else. Even Ron can't argue that there has to be a bit more to do than sit around the grounds all day, hot and sweaty as they are. They briefly consider visiting Hagrid, but after stopping by the newly rebuilt cabin, it doesn't appear he is there. Disappointed, the three of them trudge back up the hill to the castle. 

They head back inside to the dorm to find Malfoy sitting by the fire, surrounded by a mound of parchment. He visibly tenses when he sees who entered, but otherwise doesn't say a word to them, eyes glued back down to the parchment in front of him.

Harry purposefully walks between Ron and Malfoy on the way up to his room, and throws in a good elbow for measure. Hermione, however, has her eyes wandering over what Malfoy is working on and says, "So you're assigned to Transfiguration, then?" before Harry can blink. 

Malfoy doesn't answer her immediately, but he notices that Hermione isn't going anywhere. "McGonagall says something about putting my particular 'aptitude' for Transfiguration to good use for once," Malfoy says with a wry smile. 

"I hope for _your_ sake that you do," she throws back coldly. 

When she catches up with Harry and Ron, they both look at her. "I thought you said we weren't going to egg him on?"

"I wasn't egging him on," she says, "I was threatening him." The easy smile that graces her face is one that Harry has come to fear, so when he and Ron back away up the stairs, he feels justified in letting out a breath of a relief as the door shuts.

"She's scary when she's like that."

"You're _dating_ her," Harry says. 

"So, I'm justified in saying she's scary because she's fucking hot when she's scary!"

Harry throws a pillow at Ron and tells him to get out of his room.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, a combination of wandering the castle and eating foods they haven't in years. But Harry can't help but notice that Malfoy is still in the common room when they leave for dinner, and is hidden away in the curtains of his four-poster again when Harry comes back to the room.

\--

The first day of class starts with a bang. Literally. Harry wakes with a start to the sound of someone letting off what sounds like the world's worst alarm or someone retaliating against a hex. Either way, Harry's wand is out before he can think about it as Malfoy's throws back the curtains on his bed, looking as if he hasn't slept at all, if Harry's honest. 

"What was that?"

Harry doesn't answer him, but even if they're both throwing looks at the door, waiting for the worst, neither of them moves for it. There's some shouting, then laughter—and nothing else. Wishing he could put it past him to smile and ignore the way his heart is bent on pounding itself out of his chest, Harry gets up, thoroughly rattled. 

Well that's great, he thinks. The clock on the stand across from him shows it's an hour before class starts. 

A glance at Malfoy shows him doing much the same, a hand running through hair as messy as his own, up at angles that say he's been pulling at it all night. Malfoy looks alright aside, his eyes twitching wide open after a few seconds of drooping as he staggers to keep himself upright. They share a brief glance before Harry lets Malfoy take the loo first, more than happy to fall back into bed despite his bladder protesting. 

He listens for any sign that Malfoy's passed out.

Malfoy's still in the bathroom when someone comes and knocks on their door. Harry gets up to answer, and finds Ron standing away from the door. He's dressed perfectly in uniform and is fidgeting with the purple band that's supposed to be on all the eighth year's robes. 

Harry feels a smug smile cross his face and clears his throat after a few painful seconds; Ron starts a bit, but the band sticks around his arm and appears to mold into the robe's fabric. They both throw a wary glance at it before Ron walks into the room. "Morning, mate," he says. "Survived the night with that tosser?"

"Must've, I'm standing here, aren't I?" 

Ron laughs a bit. "Yeah, even if you don't look like you're ready in the slightest, Hermione's going to have your head."

"I wouldn't dream of starting it any other way, Ron. You do all right with Neville?" 

Ron snorts, and his hand goes to pull at his eyes some. Even if Harry thinks that Malfoy's a shit roommate at least he doesn't need to worry about that. "We're talking about the same guy, right? Snores worse than a Hippogriff in spring?"

They're discussing the possibility of setting up a simple _Muffiliato_ extension when Malfoy emerges from the bath. He's dressed himself well enough but even Ron's eyebrows go up when he takes in the state of him. Harry's left standing in what appears to be a tense staring contest when there's an insistent tapping on their bedroom window.

"Oh, thank fuck—" Malfoy turns and hurries over to the window to let a massive horned owl in the room. 

The owl drops off a small package on his desk before perching itself by the window. Harry watches as Malfoy cards his hands through the bird's feathers softly as he undoes the shrinking charm put on it. It immediately takes over a majority of the desk and after a moment's glance Malfoy lets out a sigh of relief. Ron nudges Harry's shoulder after a moment and he's brought out of his reverie. "I'll see you downstairs, then?" He tenses and Harry doesn't blame him for it, waving him away as he walks out the door silently. 

Harry sees the clock again and curses, grabbing his clothes before he rushes into the loo. When he'd looked in the mirror earlier it had been strange to see a deep purple tie instead of the usual gold and red around his neck. Even in his rush to get downstairs, Harry's surprised to see Malfoy in the plain black robes. Malfoy has been wearing nothing but black from head to toe since his arrival, and Harry can't remember him wearing anything silver or green in the last few times he'd seen him beforehand. Symbolic, Harry muses, as neither of them came out of the War untouched. The loss of color does not do him any favors, but the bemused look Malfoy has on his face as he inspects the purple tie has Harry thinking there might be hope yet.

\-- 

"You've really decided to come back, haven't you," Blaise says, sitting down next to him in the back of Potions. 

"I think that's obvious, given that I'm actually—y'know— _back_." It isn't one of Draco’s finer comebacks, but he's never cared for Blaise's baits. He always knew what to say to get Draco's hackles up, and this isn't the time for that. Or ever, really. 

Draco's treated to one of Blaise's blank looks, and something inside him breaks. Being judged by one's friends isn't quite the same as others. It can mean nothing at all, and at the same time it can be the worst feeling ever experienced. It's one of the more curious things about their relationship, he supposes. Feeling Blaise's gaze on him throughout the beginning of class is both a comfort and a nagging annoyance, because he isn't sure where they stand at the moment. 

Even if Draco's certain Blaise will take advantage of any weakness he shows, it's a small comfort to have someone beside him, who, despite their differences, hasn't _actually_ made a death threat against him. 

As Slughorn goes through an elaborate welcome akin to McGonagall's own at the Welcome Feast, Draco's careful to stare at the corner of the blank board behind him. Slughorn has barely tolerated him during their N.E.W.T. class, and Draco has suffered for it greatly amongst…other terrible decisions made. 

Just get through the year without killing someone. Either directly or indirectly. Piece of cake, right?

"Seeing as this is now a combined course, I figured it will be best to create a rather advanced task for you all to take part in. With the eighth years," he sweeps his hand towards the room in a grand gesture, "taking lead, groups will be conducting research regarding a key Potions ingredient throughout the year. Now, now, don't give me those looks. This will secure fundamentals as well as prepare you all for any future endeavors regarding Potion making, should you choose a career in it."

This doesn't sound like Slughorn at all, and from the confused looks on his classmate's faces, they seem to agree.

Granger immediately asks the obvious, "And how, Professor, will you suggest we decide on the ingredient?" Slughorn, with that disgusting smile of his, taps the blackboard behind him and immediately it's filled with a calendar and deadlines outlining the assignment. He then pulls out a small bag that's glowing. Of course.

"With that answered, Miss Granger, will you do us the honor of being the first to select?"

Draco leans forward a little in his seat, wondering how crazy this professor is going to get this year. The loon had them sniffing Amortentia in their first class sixth year, after all. Blaise doesn't follow the bag as closely as Draco does, but he does see him narrow his eyes at the sight of Weasley pulling out a moonstone. Draco doesn't care too much for that, although moonstones are probably the only interesting looking ingredient pulled out. 

Potter pulls out a small vial of fairy wings after some whispered joking between him and Weasley, and Draco wants to laugh at the confused look on his face. Slughorn doesn't comment, for once, but he does give him a rather large smile. He continues on, eagerly shaking the bag in front of the now terrified looking seventh year to his left. 

He watches to try and get an idea for how many people are to a group, but there are so many ingredients being pulled out and then hidden away Draco loses count. Blast this combined group. Blaise pulls out a phial of Acromantula venom, and if his muted distaste for it isn't enough, Draco nudges him a second after, just after spotting Granger's horrified face as she holds the same, to see the snarl materialize. 

" _Bloody_ buggering—"

"Mr. Zabini! Language!" Blaise shuts his mouth, hand throwing the fang into his robe pocket as if burned. 

Draco's mirth is short-lived, however, as he pulls out a fairy wing. Thinking back, the only other fairy wing he can remember is Potter, and he's still not sure if it's just partners or actual groups. It might be both. Fuck.

Slughorn shoots him a nervous glance. "Ah…well that's, interesting…" And really, if there isn't anything good to say—actually Draco can't comment on anything. 

Potter comes over to talk to him after class lets out, and Blaise only sticks around momentarily before seeming to think better of being near the Saviour. Or worse, Granger. Draco barely acknowledges him before walking to board and copying down the schedule. So, there they are.

He writes down the worst part of the project. "A trip. To research. Fairies," Draco deadpans. 

"At least they're pretty common in England, eh?" He sounds so hopeful Draco wants to smack him. "You've only ever seen them in England, haven't you, Potter."

"Haven't really been anywhere else, Malfoy," he murmurs. His eyes are still glued to the research methods they're to use, and honestly, Slughorn's crazy if he thinks they'll be able to follow them to a T. They've only just been handed one of the rarest potion ingredients. At least their subject can't kill them.

"Please don't attempt to put the blame for that on my shoulders, Potter. I'm to blame for a lot of things, but your ignorance is not one of them."

From the look Potter gives him, Draco might want to rethink the killing aspect of the assignment. 

\--

Harry has high hopes going into his first class of the day. Not that in any way he thought it'd be easy, given his now-ruined reputation as a Potions' expert. From the look Slughorn had given him and Malfoy as they'd left, Harry has to guess McGonagall had a hand in the assignment. 

That irks him. Who the hell decided he had to be Malfoy's guardian for this year? _You did, you sodding idiot_.

The rest of the classes have only gone downhill from there. Transfiguration doesn't have a year-long project, but then again, the new professor Klefter is just starting. She seems relatively relaxed compared to McGonagall, but then again as Hermione points out, the amount of pressure put on her in this new position is probably why she isn't being pushed to the extreme the other professors are. Harry feels it is incredibly strange to have two new professors, but then again this is the first time he can be sure the Defense Against the Dark Arts one isn't a danger. 

Professor Hatch is boring. Pleasant, but boring. The strangest thing about the man is his hair—a long mess that seemed to have a life of its own as it sways and fluffs up as he moves around the room. It is almost a relief to be exposed to a refresher of sixth year and seventh year magic for the year. Ron and Hermione, on either side of him, are holding the same tired looks they've had the whole day, and even when Harry tries to catch Ron's eye at the mention of battling some creature or other sometime in the semester, Harry is surprised to see he's relaxed quite a bit. 

"I consider it a privilege to be tested this way my first year teaching here, and I'm happy to accept the challenge of being the first to survive longer than a year," he says. "Although I must say," a short pause, and Harry really doesn't like the searching look that seems to reach far too much into his audience, "As much of a privilege it is to be standing with you all given your participation in the War. It's particularly hmm—shall we say, interesting—to be in the same room as not only one Master of Death, but _two_ Masters of the Elder Wand."

The comment doesn't sit well with anyone in the room. Harry's shocked, and snaps his eyes up at Hatch. Meanwhile, Ron just about sends his quill flying across the table and Hermione starts sucking on her teeth and looking around the room at anyone that isn't Hatch. _That isn't public knowledge._

\--

"Do you know how the hell Hatch would know something like that?" Harry hisses to Hermione as they walk back to the dorm. He can feel Ginny and Luna staring them down from behind, and the last thing he wants is for Ginny to get an idea. Let alone the wounded seventh years that seem to have crowded themselves around her. Luna seems fairly indifferent to it all, but then again, she experienced more than most during the war.

Hermione sighs. "I'm guessing it is part of McGonagall's agreement with the staff. There's not much evidence to let Malfoy back into the school now, is there? That's a pretty strong bargaining chip, Harry." 

A bargaining chip. Harry swears. "The way Hatch said it— _Merlin_ he sounded like we were part of some, I don't know, some kind of collection, Hermione. I don't need another Slughorn," he spits. 

"I know, Harry. We all heard it—and I'm not particularly sure I like the way he looked at Malfoy towards the end of it. You better watch your back again, despite everything." Hermione is turning past the corridor and is off to her next class while Harry catches up with Ron and Seamus. 

"What were you two whispering about back there?"

"Oh, you know, how it sounds like we've got another nutter Defense professor looking to either kill or turn me into some kind of Golden Child." Seamus chokes, a strangled laugh coming out of him while Ron smacks him.

"Don't you dare, Harry. We're one day in, don't bloody—

"He called me the Master of Death." He raises an eyebrow before shrugging. "Sorry, must have gotten into a habit of hating people who give me a title." 

Ron lets out a pained groan, "Damnit, Harry. _Dammit._ " Seamus reddens a bit but otherwise doesn't comment, and really, that is just fine with Harry.

\--

"Dear God, Finnegan and they say _I'm_ dramatic, for fuck's sake can someone just explain what the hell that is?"

Malfoy's standing against the couch furthest away from the fireplace when Harry walks in. He's just been working through a Quidditch roster with the new Captain, who, while clearly affected by Harry's general person, seemed to handle the situation well. Harry doesn't quite remember him being on the team, but then again, he's lost track of so many faces over the last year Harry's just accepted it. 

Neville's on the couch next to Padma, and Seamus is on the armchair across from them, clearly having just thrown out something to irritate him from the self-righteous look on his face. Harry doesn't want to think about the hard look on Neville's, nor the way that Padma appears to be crushing his hand to bits in an effort to keep him on the couch instead of strangling Seamus. He's strangely reminded of the fight he himself had with Seamus during fifth year and can't help but wonder if this is just something the Irishman does.

"What's all this?" Ron's just heading into the portrait hole behind Harry.

"Seamus seems to be having a bit of a memory block, or he's just being an arse, either one," Padma says coolly. Seamus laughs. "Oh, come off it, all I said that is that it's no wonder that piece of shit's a part of the fucking Hallows somehow."

Zabini appears out of nowhere, and Harry's startled for all of five seconds before he realizes that look wasn't directed at him. "No, I believe your dumb arse said 'What kind of recluse hasn't heard of it? It's only been in the fucking papers for the last year!'"

"Well it's not my bloody fault he landed _his_ dumb arse in Azkaban for being a bloody Death Eater. Fuckin' racist bastard, should've died with his family," Seamus spits. 

No one speaks for a few seconds after that, and really, there's no defense. It's a shit thing to say, but Harry can't come up with something that won't get him decked for it. "You would think that you'd be done with people dying, Seamus. And all that other crap."

Dean says that, surprising everyone. And maybe it's for the better, because it stuns Seamus into grimacing at Zabini while the latter glares him down. Harry wonders when Zabini suddenly got so defensive when he sees that Malfoy's already walking back up to their room, door slamming tightly behind him. He just sighs, waving away Seamus' stuttering apology to him. "Try not to say anything else that will get me killed in my sleep, will you?"

At Seamus' protest, Ron nails him with a packet of beans. "Oi! What the—"

"Can it, you idiot!" 

Harry just shrugs and settles down in the armchair across from Neville. He starts on figuring out a plan to work on with Ernie later, and a half hour in gets caught up in Neville's explanation of how they're trying a new curriculum already for the first and second years in Herbology. "Would you believe that they're already considering letting them into the man-eating greenhouses?"

He blinks at that. Last, he remembers the most dangerous thing they encountered as second years in the greenhouses were mandrakes. "What? Why on earth would they want to do that?"

"It sounds like a lot of the plants were damaged in the battle and despite the progress it's a slow start for a lot of the deadlier ones. Sprout's considering having the younger years introduced earlier on while they're small and have them know what they're dealing with when the time comes for them to do the physicals in sixth."

Harry's face must've shown what he thought of that, particularly in the case of the Venomous Tentacula, because Neville rushes to reassure him that they are overseeing it as their project. "Really, Harry, it's not that bad—we're still putting up protective charms and the kids are covered in dragonhide from head to toe!"

"Right, Neville, right," Harry's staring at the quill in his hand. "I'm sure every second year wants nightmares of those things coming at them from behind—I can't imagine parents are aware of this?"

"The parents are actually fully behind it," Neville says. "Something about wanting their children to be ready for the worst." Harry fails to see what situation calls for one to be prepared for man eating plants at twelve years old, but then again, he did fight Devil's Snare at eleven, so…

"At least you've managed to snag yourself a nice enough Professor—what I wouldn't give to trade Hatch for Sprout right now…Hatch seems to have it out for me."

Neville laughs, "Harry you barely passed your Herbology O.W.L., how d'you expect Sprout to want you on to tutor?"

"Gee, thanks, Neville," he says, not looking up.

"Why is not trying to kill me the standard we're living by, here? Can't it just be, I dunno, not being a git to your students?"

"Trying to kill you _is_ kind of a git thing to do—"

"Shut it, Nev."

The words in "The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection" are starting to blur when Hermione comes into the dormitory. Harry's not surprised to see her with an armful of scrolls and books in addition to her usual bag. She sits down and gives Ron a quick kiss on the cheek before what she says next makes him wince. "Where's Malfoy—we're got to get started on this tutoring as soon as possible."

"Oi! Give me fair warning the next time!"

"That's why I kissed you first." 

"Oh. Still—Hermione do you have to go and torture yourself this early on in the year? We're all already up to our eyeballs in essays and projects and you want to add more to it?"

"We all have to, Ron. I'm surprised you haven't already started on Defense. Now, where's Malfoy?" Neville and Harry share a look before glaring at Seamus who hides under a pillow. Apparently, Hermione is more terrifying than Malfoy. She eyes him. "What?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all!"

"He's gone and pissed off your partner for the day. He disappeared into the room ages ago, haven't seen him since," Neville says. Hermione doesn't look impressed, but she doesn't say anything else before going up to Harry and Malfoy's room. Seamus flips Neville two fingers before grumbling, but Harry can care less as he watches her disappear into his room.

He's waiting for the yelling to start when the door opens again and Hermione's making her way back down, looking worried but still determined. Harry catches her eye and immediately regrets it, because she sits down with such force she almost sends him off the cushions. "What? What happened?"

Ron comes over and plops himself down beside her and she whispers heatedly, "He's put himself out with Dreamless Sleep, from the looks of it. At first, I thought he was just ignoring me, but even snapping at him doesn't get him up." At Harry and Ron's looks, she sighs.

"Oh, don't tell me you're going to do something terrible now."

"You just told us Draco bloody Malfoy has knocked himself out for the taking, is fast asleep in Harry's room, and you think that we're going to _what_ , attack him?" Ron scowls. "It's like you don't know us at all. I'd at least like the ponce to be awake—in pain, maybe, but sheesh Hermione, we're Gryffindors, not arseholes."

Ron twitches a little bit, uncomfortable and Hermione takes a hold of his hand. His face seems pale, even in the light of the fire, and Harry's struck with the memory of seeing Ron's dopey, lovestruck face in Slughorn's office turning into one of horror in recognition of what could've been, only for him to nearly die moments later.

\--

Slughorn's standing in the middle of the dungeon room, flanked by the eighth and seventh years. Draco had initially been surprised at the amount of people in the room, but the staring that came his way has him sitting in the corner chair closest to the door. Draco waited until the last possible second to enter the room, thinking everyone would be too busy to notice, and yet feels as though every person is watching him at some point throughout the first half of class.

Draco's not in the happiest of moods, having woken up yet again screaming and surrounded by his curtains. After realizing he'd woken up past breakfast, Draco had been so flustered he'd rushed out of the dorm without his bag and had to wait for someone to leave because the blasted portrait seemed to hate him. Draco had initially thought he'd been saying the password wrong.

Then again, as he's mouthing _butter teaspoon_ to himself, Draco's wondering how the hell you can say that wrong.

"You would think you'd be better off than the rest of us," Blaise murmurs as they wait to be called, startling him. "What with being Snape's favorite and all."

Draco shrugs and looks back down at the Advanced Potions text. "And Slughorn doesn't care for me, much like the rest of the school. Fancy that." With an aggrieved sigh Blaise nudges him over and starts pointing out the ones he thinks are the most likely. Draco figures he can't go wrong, given Slughorn's admiration of Blaise and his unnatural ability to snoop out poisoned items, see here, years of training to survive his mother. 

Blaise's intuition turns out to be right—the first section involves identifying moonseed, sweet amber, and night shade, and for a second Draco's convinced they've just dropped into Herbology. The second portion comes in figuring out which one's been dropped into the sweets in front of them and how best to cure it. Easily able to identify them and walk away with a small breath of relief, Draco settles back into his desk.

They've been given the second half of the lesson to figure out objectives for the project, with this first half turned into a surprise test of sorts. Draco watches as the first couple of N.E.W.T. level students fail to identify the properties of the plants laid out in front of them. As he watches Slughorn tut his way through six groups in front of them, he can feel the energy in the room dropping. The _Muffiliatio_ he's cast over them is just as annoying. 

He's only alone a second before Potter's at his side, leaning against the chair opposite him. When Potter doesn't say anything, Draco looks over to see Blaise still occupied with Slughorn, Weasley looking slightly put out off to the corner alone. Fighting a textbook, if the way he's nearly ripping pages is any indication.

"So," Draco says, hands drumming pointedly against the wood of the desk in front of them. "Not only are we roommates, we're together for this project."

"Yep." Potter's voice is as short as Draco's is calm, and he can't help but feel responsible. Normally he'd find this amusing, but the fact of the matter is, they're being tested. And Potter's grades were nearly abysmal in Snape's classes. He's not sure if Slughorn is testing them or attempting to push Potter through. Either way, it's not going to be easy.

He settles for basics. "Any idea where you want to start with this?"

It's not that Draco's not interested, he's just not sure to what level they'll be able to accomplish anything. From the bemused look Potter's giving him, he probably thinks the same. Fancy that. "I know there's a couple of different potions we do throughout the year involving them, would you want to try doing a variation on any of them?"

"Fairy wings aren't really going to have life changing effects on a potion Potter—it's an essential, yes, but it's not—uh—

"It's not volatile."

Draco nods, and Potter sighs, face pulling that put off pout he usually gets when he's exhausted his care for something. It's wonderful, really, Draco doesn't get to see it that often anymore. Kind of cute, in a stupid sort of way. He blinks slowly, wondering where _that_ thought came from. 

_They just notice an unhealthy amount of things about each other, is all.They're living together for Circe's sake._ "I'm not entirely sure it will work, but we can try something following the W.H.I.F.F. guidelines."

"The what guidelines?"

"The W.H.I.F.F. guidelines—the Witches Holistic Institute for Friends of Fairies." He can see Potter mouthing the phrase back to himself and wants to smile at the exhausted look that appears on his face. Almost as nice as the pout.

"It's the closest thing to a conservation group the dumb things have, might be worth a look," he says, half to himself. Draco's honestly pulling ideas out of thin air. Potter seems to grab onto it and agrees to meet him in the library later that week, possibly during Draco's tutoring hours if things go as they have the last few weeks.

\--

The third meeting the three of them have with Hatch doesn't go as expected. The first two have been rather short, and they've just followed his suggestions until they got the hang of their own schedules. 

Now that they've settled in, Hatch is staring down critically at the time table Ernie has written for them.

"You've planned to meet with the first years three nights a week, the second years another three, and then have a practical opportunity on the weekends for those wanting to practice spell-work?"

Padma tilts her head. "Is that not what you wanted, Professor?" Hatch tuts slightly as he shifts the scroll plan in front of him. "It's not necessarily unqualified…" he trails off. Harry exchanges a look with her as the professor scans the scroll again. "Did you at least look into the times my classes were scheduled? Or whether these students have the times off?"

"Of course, sir. Per the schedule the three times a week spread out is so that the combined classes can be taught at the pace that your lectures are being held." Harry's really not sure why he's here. Ernie and Padma are much more diplomatic than he is, and he can feel his frustration getting to Ernie. Hatch isn't unaware of it, either. The smarmy look on his face says just as much as he looks at the three of them.

"And how do you plan to separate them up? Are you all three going to be at each one or is one day going to benefit more from the others?" Padma's cut off by Harry's response.

"Pardon me for pointing this out, sir, but we've all been through this before. And if you think we aren't capable of coordinating enough to actually be able to tutor first-and-second-year magic, why bother at all?"

Ernie kicks Harry lightly and he's tempted to yell at the Hufflepuff as well. Padma just stares straight ahead. "Perhaps," Hatch says, "Mr. Potter, I'm hoping to find out why on Earth we're treating remedial year Seven students with such reverence when the reality is they should probably still be back in sixth. The same goes for the rest of the classes, bar the first years."

Harry has the grace to stay silent and stare at the floor.

"None the less, I chose you three for a reason, and that reason is because there is potential. Not that there won't be criticism. This is still considered a school course, even if it doesn't feel like it." He keeps his eyes on Padma as he says that, and Harry feels properly admonished. It's the not the first time someone's called him rash, but then again, this isn't the first time they've done this. But as they sit through Hatch's explanations of the next three weeks' worth of lessons and coordinate the tutoring sessions, Harry feels it's a lot less exciting than he thought it would be. Even if Hatch is more competent than his own second-year disaster of a Professor, he's sticking to the books more often than not. It's boring, but Harry's just going to have to get used to that, isn't he?

\--

The next few weeks pass by in a blur, and Draco isn't sure what happened during them, if he's quite honest with himself. He's still eating in the kitchens, if occasionally accompanied by Blaise. He's still avoiding contact with most of the student body, if he can. Even the Slytherins avoid him, and that's just—well that's—just fine now, isn't it. 

So far the only students that have approached his tutoring sessions have come as a sort of dare and it irritates the hell out of him. Draco doesn't want to keep sending tripping jinxes towards the little bastards but it's hard not to think he's wasting time that can be better spent doing something _productive_. Then he remembers that he's lucky to be there at all, and feels humbled until the next one comes along. 

Draco has to settle for the combined tutoring lessons and watching the other two take credit for his ideas, the one thing that _might_ help clear his name a little. Merlin, this is a nightmare. 

Potter also keeps trying to catch his eye during Potions lessons, and he's steadfastly ignoring him, too. So much in fact, that Potter tries to corner him on his way out from the bath, awkwardly enough.

Draco has made the mistake of thinking they'd gotten past, or were avoiding discussing, certain things, but seeing Potter stare at his chest in horror has every ugly emotion he's felt in years past rise up again and Draco punches him. It shouldn't feel so good to get punched straight back and thrown into a door, but it does.

" _Christ_ —will you just fucking hear me out, already?"

Draco's got his shoulder pinned to the wall, and between Potter's hand gripping his shoulder in a vice and the wood of the door jam digging into his shoulder he feels fairly outmatched. And in pain. 

That's not to say he doesn't struggle and earn himself another bruising, pinned shoulder before deadpanning, "Fine, what is it." He'd knee Potter in the crotch but he doesn't fancy flashing him in the process. This position is weird enough as it is.

"Stop taking the Dreamless Sleep—you're going to get addicted to it."

He—"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me—stop taking the Dreamless Sleep," Potter says, pressing in closer. "There's no way the amount you have is legal. That's not Pomfrey you're getting it from." 

Draco refuses to back down and just stares right back. Blaise might have been getting it for him, so what, he's not a fucking idiot—he knows _exactly_ how to abuse it if he wants to. 

Potter seems to take his silence as guilt, and fuck him too. He backs off and walks back to his bed, turning his back on him like he's certain Draco won't try anything. "Get off it, then. Get something herbal, Merlin knows you've filled the damn bath with enough lemon scented bits to stay through the year. You can change things up a bit - might do you some good." 

And Potter walks out—just like that, leaving Draco standing on his side of the room in a towel with a severely nagged shoulder.

"Who the fuck does he think he is…" he whispers to himself. Shaking his head, Draco heals his shoulder quickly and dresses himself.

He's just about out the door when realizes it. Seeing as Potter's side of the room is closer to the entrance, Draco's naturally just assumed the scent is coming from the commons—but then again he's never been hit with the strength of it until now. There's a very distinct difference from his side; whereas Draco's lemon scented shower items are possibly one of few comforting things he has, now that he thinks about it, Potter's scent is—he tilts his head a bit— _soothing_?

Testing the limits of his sanity he walks to Potter's bed, leans over the pillows, and inhales deeply, just to see if he's guessed right. 

Potter's pillow is filled with lavender. 

\--

Some nights after the bathroom incident, and his decision to stop taking the Dreamless Sleep at Potter's insistence, Draco's woken up in the middle of the night by Potter's face. He pants, disorientated from the dream he must've been having; mind blanking from whatever horrors must've crept in and senses hit with the strange, heated smell of sweat and Potter's shampoo. So, Potter woke him up. Or rather, from the shocked look on his face now, Draco's guessing the Silencing Charm wore off. Again. 

He's still getting his heart to stop racing when Potter finally says, "You were screaming." Draco laughs, voice hoarse and pained from the night terrors. "Really—had no idea." He's resolutely staring into the darkness of their room rather than at Potter, and for a few moments all Draco can hear is his own breathing evening out. Once the blood stops rushing through his head, he recognizes Potter's steady breathing is far too close, close enough for him to hear, and that's just—well, that's just not right.

"Get out of my bed, Potter. _Now_."

With a punch he isn't sure he has in him, Draco sends Potter flying backwards and spells the curtains shut before he even hears the satisfactory crash echoing throughout their room. " _—what the hell Malfoy—Merlin's sake—_ " He casts a _Muffiliato_ on the curtains and waits for the inevitable Potter-attempt to open things that just shouldn't be opened. Surprisingly, Draco doesn't get either. Still riding a wave of fear that he can't seem to shake off, Draco stares up at the ceiling until it starts to move. When Draco does fall back asleep, it's with a tense heart and an even stranger feeling of regret.

\--

Draco wakes up the next morning feeling like he's slept with Death itself. Just as sweaty, disoriented, and sore as when Potter woke him, he feels like his muscles have been twitching and tensing all night. Draco's back spasms as he gets up, and notices that, yes, his bed curtains are now open. Open enough that he can make out Potter's tired gaze on him before he turns his head, hand going up to his neck like knows he's been caught staring. It's weird enough knowing that Potter's awake before him, let alone remembering last night's events.

That's the top of the list of Things He Will Not Talk About, so Draco settles for glaring at him as he walks to the washroom and slams it shut. The noise has him reeling against the bathroom counter from the sound, but Draco wasn't ever one for rational thought in the face of anger. If he rubs his skin raw, desperate to get the feeling of aged sweat and dirt off him as memories flood in, that's between him and relaxing heat of the shower pulsing away at his muscles. 

Between the need to dodge the looks he gets from the other eighth years and resolutely telling Blaise he will _not_ talk about why he looks exhausted, he can feel his skin crawling all day. Klefter's after the three of them for tutoring planning for the upcoming exams, even though they've barely started. She's pleasant enough, even if she gives McGonagall a run for her money in terms of intensity and has the nasty habit of tapping her fingers when she can't think of something right off the bat.

Draco's ready to snap her fingers off when she mentions that the fourth years will be attempting to transform ferrets into feather dusters that week.

"Bit of a trip down memory lane, eh, Malfoy?" Boot sniggers as he walks away from the meeting, and Draco's itching to hex something. He settles for sabotaging Blaise's Potions assignment that day and feigning innocence as it bubbles over onto his lap. 

Draco's finished another stolen meal from the kitchens in the unused classroom they're using for tutoring when he decides to work out some of that relentless energy by testing the boundaries of what magic he can actually use. He's figured out various jinxes, a couple spare hexes, and a few charms not taught in classes when Granger pokes her head in, followed by Boot. 

Boot's still laughing about earlier. He's got a crooked smirk on his face as he asks, "What're you doing there, Malfoy?"

"Hmmmm...just testing some limits," he murmurs, twirling his wand carelessly. "I'd rather not be hurt doing schoolwork, you see? Can't very well do work if every single spell makes me want to rip my skin off."

At Boot and Granger's alarmed looks he scoffs. "School age jinxes, _Merlin_ you two are suspicious." He vanishes his left over food and lets Granger roll them over with the next tutoring set up.

As he watches Granger and Boot show the second years how to transform matchsticks into needles and then back again, Draco's wondering how on Earth anyone used to find this exciting. Granted, he supposes that as a pureblood he'd known for a while how to do such things, and would have to beg his father's forgiveness otherwise, but it's still astonishing to see a small child get so excited over something so insignificant. Although then again, he just got excited over the fact that he can now, somewhat, defend himself against anything stupid sent his way.

Outside of the meeting with Klefter, Malfoy's not said spare a word during the tutoring sessions if the other two are around. Although, seeing as no one's actually come to the free hours he's posted, he supposes it doesn't make a difference. Granger immediately sees through this and at least has him planning the lessons, even if her and Boot are adding their bits and pieces to it. 

Boot seems to be fine arguing with Granger over methods, but now won't look at Draco at all. He's come to think of Boot as a voyeur to the tutoring, because even if he is a Ravenclaw, he seems fine to just go with whatever Granger says. Draco can feel himself burning under her gaze every time he makes a comment, and even if he does stop himself a few times from calling her a Mudblood, the fact that he can has them on the edge. 

He doesn't even want to think what will happen if he rolls his sleeves. Of course, Draco would rather die than see the thing on his arm again, but that's beside the point. The point is—well, he just—Draco's fucked up and it's a million times more frustrating to know you've done the wrong thing and never know when you'll be forgiven for it. The fact that some of the second years seem to be watching him watch Granger like he'll fucking attack her. Christ.

So, Draco leans against the classroom wall and watches the way that Granger and Boot take turns demonstrating and then fixing the casting forms of the second years with as passive of a face as he can manage. 

\--

Just as Harry and Padma are entering the Defense classroom, he notices that the room has been set up to duel. Presumably, he thinks, wondering what the hell else can be happening if all the desks have been cleared and put to the sides. At Harry's face, Padma shrugs.

"He told us he is going to start the first years on practicing dueling this morning—Harry you really should start paying more attention, no matter how much of an arse he is," she says. She shoots Terry a look across the room, and Harry's nonplussed to see him laugh at his expense. 

"I really haven't been paying much attention then, have I?" He's leaning against a wall by Hermione as Padma walks off, mumbling, "No, but you've been doing more than your share of the tutoring, regardless of the direction, so…." And she walks to join Terry on the other side of the room. Harry's still wracking his brain while Hermione's pointedly ignoring him mutter as to what the hell they're going to be doing when Ron shuffles in with Ginny and Luna. 

Ginny's ranting to Ron about a Quidditch strategy, and Harry can barely blame her. From what he's seen during the minimal time he's been allowed by the pitch window—they really ought to start calling it something else, seriously, where the hell has wizarding creativity gone—the Gryffindor team's not up to par. And even then, the muddy, tired look that the team usually sports trudging into the Hall after practice for dinner has been enough. It momentarily makes him want to go fly, but it's sleeting outside and if that doesn't just set the mood for this class, Harry doesn't know what does.

"Why're you looking so lost, Harry? You do know that Hatch has warded against Wrackspurts, so I can't imagine you've gotten a case of those?" 

Luna's a brilliant distraction, she really is these days. "No, don't think I have. Probably just the rain, though."

Obviously Luna doesn't believe him, but Harry doesn't have time to come up with a better excuse when Hatch appears and calls the room to attention. Momentarily he sees the shock of Malfoy's hair out of the corner of his eye, and for Malfoy to just slip past him, Harry realizes just _how_ distracted he must have been. 

"Now today, as previously mentioned last week," he sweeps his arm across the room, "we will start practicing duelling nonverbally." Where Harry guesses the professor expected at least excited murmuring, silence greets him. 

"I'm going to take it from the silence that you're all enthralled. Well! Now to pair you off— _there's the collective groan I was expecting!_ "

Harry's not sure if the groaning is from the professor thinking they're actually annoyed at 'surprise pairing' or if they all know exactly who they're going to be stuck with based on how they act towards one another. Last week's written assignments have Ron and Terry nearly ripping into each other over misused historical artefacts. He's surprised to find himself paired with Zabini and shares a confused, tired look with the Slytherin for all of five seconds before hearing the final pairing—

"And Miss Lovegood, will you please pair up with Mr. Malfoy?"

"Certainly!" At the horrified looks that Harry knows he, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione are shooting her, she just stares at them. 

"What? You think I'm in Ravenclaw for nothing, do you?" 

They watch her walk over to him as their classmates begin to move, but Harry sees that Malfoy's standing stock still. Zabini's whispering something to him before he makes his way to Harry, but other than that, he doesn't move a muscle until Luna's over by his side, saying something or other while he looks down at her with that horrified, confused face he gets. 

Ginny and Ron are already glaring Malfoy down, even as their partners are waving their hands in front of them, trying to get their attention. "I swear to Merlin, Harry if he—" Ginny's thrown backwards with a shot from her ex, Corner, and Harry has to bite his tongue to not send something his way. 

"Ginny I'm pretty sure he's more terrified of himself than anyone in this room, Luna included. She'll be fine." At least, he hopes. Zabini makes a none-too-polite cough in his direction and Harry's forced to pay attention to him as he shoots Corner a dark look.

"Dear me, it must say something that even I'm not at that level, eh, Potter?" 

Harry doesn't answer him and just throws his own Knockback Jinx at him. Zabini easily blocks it, and Harry's forced to spend the class blocking and throwing hexes and jinxes. Thankfully, Zabini appears to be as focused on Malfoy as Harry is on Luna, and they manage to get one another enough times to satisfy Hatch. Or enough to entertain him. Either way, they're allowed to stop earlier than Ron or Hermione, and is given the chance to simply watch, "Provided you do not interfere, nor assist, _Mr. Zabini_."

Pretending _not_ to hear what Zabini says in response under his breath, Harry watches from the sidelines. Ron and Hermione are doing well, even if Ron's appearing to be more red in the face than usual against Terry. When Terry's hair grows a ridiculous amount and blocks him from seeing Ron's disarmament, Harry laughs as Terry screams. 

" _God damnit Draco just throw a simple bloody—_ " Zabini's muttering under his breath again and Harry turns to see Malfoy just throwing up Shield Charm after Shield Charm, resolutely shaking his head as Luna keeps sending jinxes at him.

"Will you _please_ just attack me!" Luna's saying. "You're not going to pass this class if you don't— _I don't care Draco just send something towards me!_ I'm perfectly capable of defending myself!"

She sends something else and he blocks it, again, saying nothing and shaking his head again.

The next thing Harry sees is a flurry of Shield Charms going up in succession until one flutters momentarily and Draco's hit with a slash to the face, blood pouring from the side of his cheek. He barely lets out more than a huff and seals it off, only to have Luna send him flying backwards into a wall again. 

_"Get up! ATTACK ME!"_

Harry watches worriedly as she sends another spell his way, and Malfoy must react badly to it, because the next thing he's choking as he curls up in pain and rolls to his knees. Foam drips from Malfoy's mouth as he chokes, turning pink as blood pools in it, and his hand's still gripping his arm as Hatch runs towards him. Harry's nearly there, as is Zabini and Ginny.

Hatch flicks his wand and immediately everyone in the room is thrown back at least ten feet from one another. _"EVERYBODY. OUT."_

"Wha—

 _"EVERYBODY. OUT. End of discussion."_ The room's deadly quiet, but Harry can feel everyone filing out, sees Parkinson tug Zabini away. Everybody's just leaving—he's not even sure Hatch is doing anything else other than standing there staring at him shuddering—it's sickening, honestly. 

Ginny's already tugged Luna out of the classroom and Ron's pulling at Harry's arm like he's trying to dislocate it. "Mate. _Mate._ We have to get out— _now_."

"The _hell_ we do—" 

"No. We do. Look behind you."

Harry turns to see a file of Auror trainees and one or two he might recognize from various funerals he went to in the summer. It's amazing to him, actually, that they're already there. There's no way McGonagall will have ever lifted the Apparition ban that quickly. Or let them in there at all.

It makes Harry feel even worse that as he turns, a few of them smile at him—like this is a show. He returns one of the trainees waves with a blank look, mentally wondering what the hell Kingsley's playing at. Or if he's involved at all, from the whispered conversation the lead Auror appears to have with Hatch. 

Ginny's clearly not fond of him questioning Luna. Then again, she's not fond of him at all lately, and he's to blame for that. Thankfully, Luna doesn't seem to be bothered at all, only holding Ginny's hand like Luna knows it's meant to be a comfort to Ginny and not herself, and she's a blessing, really. 

"No, Harry, that isn't me. I'd gather that is the bracelet the Ministry's set on his arm. Although— I did goad him quite a bit—"

"Luna you can't possibly feel guilty for that—that git's punishment. You can't. He—" Luna cuts Ginny off crossly. 

"He doesn't want to do _anything_ —he doesn't want to—and I just hit him with dozens of spells—that can't have just been him, Harry." She turns to him. "Do we even know what sets it off?"

Harry realizes he's never asked, or thought to ask. How exactly does one ask their ex-Death Eater, school nemesis turned reluctant roommate what sets off a Trace Brace? Or what it even is, rather?

\--

After the incident with Malfoy, whatever motivation Hermione has driven into him and Ron to get a full education is gone. Maybe they'd hung around and mourned for too long, maybe they'd taken too long of a vacation, who knew. 

On several accounts, Harry has to remind himself, and Ron, that this is what they came back for. The opportunity to be a true student. So help him, they were going to have the most boring school year of their lives. Although the tutoring is a better opportunity. "You said you were getting bored with staying in the house, Harry. Just like Ernie says, it'll be like The D.A."

"Yeah, but how do I get them to listen to understand now? The threat's gone—you won't believe how many times I've has to explain there's more to Dark Arts than the Wars."

"Because of you. Us. That's how you get them to listen. And there's always going to be something else," Ron says. "If we don't learn that the second time around, I really have no idea how the hell the Ministry's going to handle the next few years." He shrugs, completely indifferent to what is happening outside the castle walls. Right now, whatever dramatics Hatch has started, Harry wants none of them, and he is going to be spending a ridiculous amount of time with someone who has even worse of a temper than he did, who seems to have no intention of changing. 

\--

Again, Harry becomes obsessed with figuring out what the Trace Brace does. Or how it interacts, and seeing as the object is pretty new—Hermione even guesses it's probably only being tested out on Malfoy, and isn't _that_ just perfect—there won't be any information on it. Even McGonagall is frustratingly quiet on the subject.

"Mr. Potter, even if I did know, I would be in no position to tell you what it does. Only that it is a Ministry device set to protect _all_ of those at this school, which is my intention," she says in a clipped voice. The look she gives him has his own reproachful one flying off his face and wondering why in the hell he thought she had a hand in it. He's left standing in the hallway, shamefaced and embarrassed by his own thoughts.

So he finds himself trying to sneak into the Hospital Wing. At Seamus and Padma's gobstopped faces when they see him leaving at night, Harry shrugs. "You're off your rocker, mate. They're not just going to let you in."

"They didn't let me in the Ministry those two times I broke in, either," he laughs. "Never stopped me before." It's not even an hour past dinner, there's nothing suspicious about this. Nothing at all.

He's lucky enough to catch Madam Pomfrey coming on her way back from dinner two nights later, and slips in just behind her under the Cloak, Aurors unaware, as usual. 

"Why the hell are you here, Potter?"

Harry stops, just a couple feet away from Malfoy's bed. So much for the surprise, then. 

"I'm fairly certain Pomfrey knows you're here as well," he says, looking down the hall. "Not sure that the Professors care much about that anymore. So, again, why?" 

Harry's not sure, if he's honest. He's genuinely curious as to why he's been strapped with Malfoy if there's such a strong charm on Malfoy's person, but figures that won't end well with Malfoy. Dropping the cloak, he settles into one of the chairs off to Malfoy's right. "Just figured I'd poke my nose where it doesn't belong," he says. "As usual. Tend to do that when a friend of mine has been hurt."

There's a noise off beyond the doorway and they both freeze, Harry prepared to run if necessary. "If you have to, lie to me then," Malfoy whispers, still looking at the door like he's expecting it to burst open with every word he says. "But don't lie to yourself. You've never been the type to help others help themselves, Potter. You rescue them. Always have, always will."

"The hell do you mean by that—"

"You only started your Army group because it is just that. Rescuing. And yes you were obviously rescuing those in need and then recruiting for the right side—but it is selfish." Malfoy's voice isn't even cruel. It almost sounds like he's saying something he's rehearsed, calmly and as collected as if he's says it a thousand times. Harry's shocked. "You needed people on your side and there's no better way than to teach—to provide something that wasn't there before, even if you were the one that planted the need in the first place."

"They had a _choice_." Everyone that joined it did it because they wanted to help, he'd made it clear a million times over—no one was to join unless they knew what could happen, and hell, Harry hadn’t even wanted the damn thing in the first place.

"And I guess, so did I." 

He doesn't look happy at admitting that. "Or at least that's what the Aurors want everyone to believe. That I deserve whatever this thing does to me."

Harry thinks back to the way everyone looked on in confused horror as he'd just fallen down and doesn't think that anyone's got that perspective. Or at least, the taste for torture. Harry hopes. 

"That's a lot of self pity coming from someone who claims they don't care what anyone thinks." He knows he's hit the mark when Malfoy bristles, hands going back to twisting the sheets as if he's itching to punch someone. Probably Harry.

"I said I don't care about your opinion, not that I don't care about anyone else's." That's a lie, they both know it. Malfoy catches Harry's eye and he can see him trying to find something to yell at him about. "Would you like to know why that thing went off?"

"Well?"

"I panicked. I'd sent her a hex. I'm not even sure what—could've been a Bat Bogey, maybe something to do with arms—who knows," at Harry's disbelieving look he shakes his head. "I'm serious. I've tested things for school and nothing in the curriculum we've learned affects it."

"So you're saying... you've been testing the limits of your punishment, in our room, _while I sleep_ ," Harry says, like he can't believe he's repeating it back to him. 

Draco nods, "There's nothing wrong with that. You'd know if I did something Dark now, wouldn't you?"

"That's terrible—what—" Harry stops, feeling his face heat in frustration. "Will you shut up—stop the self pitying act already. I'm trying to help you! This—this shouldn't be happening if you're supposedly on the probationary sentence they have you on."

"I'm tired. Do whatever you want, but you need to leave." Harry's considering raising his voice and alerting the Aurors, but that won't end well for him—or Malfoy. So he turns to leave, putting the cloak back on knowing that he'll have to face Malfoy again soon.

Harry can hear Malfoy mumbling to himself behind him before Harry hears a whispered shout, "Wait! Potter— _Potter_!"

He turns around and walks back as quietly as possible, enjoying himself immensely when pulling off the Cloak makes Malfoy jump slightly.

"Fuck! What the— _damn you."_

Harry just laughs silently until Malfoy finally gets out a hushed, "Can you tell me Lovegood's alright?" 

Oh. Harry coughs lightly, looking down. Malfoy's hands are twisting in the sheets again, and they're much easier to concentrate on than his face. "Yeah—yeah she's perfectly fine. says she feels pretty awful about that happened, too."

There's a long silence after that. Harry's halfway to wondering if he should leave when Malfoy whispers, almost to himself, "Hatch is a right git. She doesn't deserve that. I'm not going to do that to her again—or anyone, really."

Harry hums noncommittally, nodding his head. He's a bit out of sorts now, to be honest. Malfoy seems to sense this, "Potter _leave_ , you bloody creep. I understand you've a habit of crawling to my bed at night but—" He shrugs, arms opened a bit. Harry chokes and immediately backs off, thinking of how fucking small Malfoy looks, a damn mess in the sheets with his hair a mess.

"Fuck Malfoy—I'm going— _Merlin—_ "

\--

Draco's dreading going back to the dorm. If he was unwelcome before, well, he's properly done a number on his reputation now. Staying silent has proved to be useful, if the way the Aurors are gunning for him is any indication. It's strange. He wants to ask, wants to know. Why won't they tell him the limitations. The unknown is messing with his head— _Potter_ is messing with his head.

There's only so much he can think about before he's stuck staring at the portrait to the dorm, willing himself through and into his room unscathed.

Unfortunately he can only do magic, not miracles. Draco waits outside as the portrait refuses his password, _again_.

Draco's hoping that no one is there as he trails a random sixth year through, finally, but he's never been lucky, has he? He's met with Brown, Thomas, Patil and some Hufflepuffs sitting in one corner and Pansy and Blaise sitting off in another. The second the door opens all eyes are on him. The anxiety's back again, building up, and really, he doesn't think this is a problem for him.

What he isn't expecting is the yelling, and then Pansy running towards him and throwing her arms around him. He can hear the sniggering start and then something of a disgusted groan come from the Hufflepuffs, but there's a feeling; it's like a buildup of loose energy. 

It's subtle, and maybe someday he can pull himself out of this situation with better grace—but Draco's not in her arms longer than a few seconds before he's shaking, nausea consuming his body. 

He can feel the bile building up—burning and cloying its way up his throat. "Get—get _off me_ —now."

"Draco—what—" It's not like she's not done this before, and Merlin if he hasn't endured worse from her over the years, but _fuck_ it feels so wrong—"Don't bloody— _don't_ touch me." 

This was his plan all along, after all, throw off a friend of ten years, have some sort of anxiety attack and then promptly run up to his own toilet before vomiting into the bin. Wonderful. Spectacular entrance.

He's flexing his hands on the bin, feeling like he's barely woken up and still doesn't have control of his limbs. Draco feels weak, like he's slipping into unconsciousness, or close to it. He's not sure how long he sits there, slumped to his knees on the side of the tub with the plastic bin in his hands, waiting for the inevitable, as the smell from the sick isn't helping. 

Either way, it doesn't feel like he's made progress when Draco tries to get up. His limbs still don't want to work, and that nervous energy making him feel as if he's done something wrong and needs to fix it, can't, no— _won't_ go away.

"It's just the Brace…just the stupid Brace," he says to the tile. 

He's continued staring at the thing around his wrist with malice, wondering if he set it aflame just by staring at it, when there's a knock on the door. Draco instinctively vanishes the sick and has a small heart attacking thinking the Trace Brace will reactivate again, knowing his luck. It doesn't, and now the knocking's turned into pounding.

"Malfoy, are you in there? Open the bloody door, already!" There's a lot of effort in doing so, but Draco gets up and opens the door. Potter's standing there, frustrated face melting away once get he gets a look at him.

Potter blinks stupidly before opening his mouth and Draco beats him to it. "Shut it, Potter. I'm exhausted." As if to prove it, Draco strides to his bed and promptly passes out in it, robes on and curtains open before he has time to wonder why Potter seemed ready to burst open the door and is still standing there like an idiot.

When Draco comes to, it's to Potter's face sitting by his bed in the early morning again. The creepy git. His heart's threatening to rip out of his rib cage and Potter's there, watching. Again.

"You know," he says, softly, like he's not even sure he's saying it out loud, and Draco himself isn't sure he's hearing it, "I reckon everyone else will say you should see a Mind Healer about that. It's funny, really. Anyone saying that—very odd to hear considering the things they've said in the past." He laughs. Draco's still not sure if it's an illusion but he'll stare at the ceiling in silence either way. Draco's definitely fallen asleep to Potter speaking before, he can certainly do it again. 

"But if you're getting tired of the nightmares, it might help to talk. Maybe."

He lets the question hang in the air so long he can hear Potter get up to see if he's fallen asleep. Draco catches his eye but doesn't say anything until he's certain Potter's back in his own bed.

"Maybe." 

\-- 

As the winter holidays approach, Harry can feel the air getting tenser. Things are slowly becoming more oriented towards exams and finalizing project updates. 

Tutoring wise, Ernie's confident that their last round of physicals prepped the first and second years tremendously, and Harry has to reluctantly agree. Even if the small crowd has been a bit star struck by the two of them, more so Harry than Ernie or Padma, the determination to nail the few defensive spells required has paid off. "Not too shabby, eh?" Nelson, a portly first year in Hufflepuff has managed to outshine the rest of his house, already working his way up to nearly second year level defense. As the sparks fly up and illuminate the room compared to the sparks barely putting out from his classmates' wands, Harry can't help but agree. 

"It's really good, Nelson. Truly," he commends.

Ernie's taking the house pride a little too seriously. There's a certain spot for favoritism but when one eighth year is clearly making sure Hufflepuff students get extra hours if they want and the overall effort suffers because of it but, well, that's not Harry's problem. He's beyond fighting someone over something like that. He's just trying to find some sleep in between every student that might accidentally try to barge in on the tutoring session, even if they're in the wrong year or class, and the consistent ire he faces from Malfoy. 

"I really just don't understand the _drive for_ it that he has," Padma's saying one night, hands flying about. "It's like that madness during fifth year—the nutter is doing an insane amount of revision."

Remembering that one particularly intense discussion he'd had with Ernie that year, Harry winces. Although exam preparation is understandable. Houses don't matter all that much to him at the moment, especially since the eighth years are all sharing spaces anyway.

He finds the tutoring a bit boring, nearly calling it babysitting. It's great that they're able to take on some of the workload, but he'd forgotten how distracted the younger years can get.

"It's not babysitting if they're learning something, Harry." Padma's busy working on a schedule that will match Lavender's for their own Potion's project, and he's flipping aimlessly through the W.H.I.F.F. guide, which is really more of a brochure, if he's honest. An ancient one, at that. "Besides, these are kids that didn't have the experience we did for once—or they never got to experience the insane need to learn something for themselves—to fight for it. This is that chance."

On one hand Harry wants to agree, if only because of the pressure that's being handed down to him and the other eighth years in Defense. Hatch has proven to be quite the antagonist to Malfoy and even several of the seventh years are starting to sympathize with him. He can't take points from him but he can certainly make his life hell—regardless of how Malfoy performs in class. Malfoy's definitely sharp, reaction-wise, but when put on the spot as often as Hatch has for him, it's a miracle Zabini hasn't somehow set the professor on fire. 

Harry's sympathizing with a Death Eater and one of the most blood-purist Slytherins he's ever met. Christ. 

Malfoy's still reserved at best, dreadful at his worst, but ever since their conversation early last week he's been sleeping with the bed curtains open. They both still have issues sleeping, so it's not as if Harry ever sees Malfoy asleep before him. Even this past week, Harry's still nodding off long before Malfoy does, dimly aware of the faint glow of his wand as he buries himself in some book or other in his bed. Even on the weekends it's much the same. Harry will retire far earlier than Malfoy ever will—whether he's off with Zabini and Parkinson or elsewhere. 

He's even become accustomed to what Malfoy smells like. Always showering first, Harry's hit face first with the citrusy pine smell of whatever hair potions and body wash Malfoy uses. More than once Harry's caught himself in the fogged mirror staring at the hair potions wondering if he can get away with trying it. The first time Harry caught a whiff of Malfoy's scent, he'd been reminded of their last fight, with nothing but the smell of blood and sweat curled around fear in the air. Now Harry's becoming used to the strong scent overwhelming the memory in the shower. It may also be something he's smelling while wanking in there, but that's just timing, that's all. 

But Harry hasn't told anyone this. And if Hermione or Ron have noticed anything out of the ordinary, well, Harry hasn't heard it. He's not even sure there's a thing. He already told Ron he is done with his sister at the beginning of the year and she's more than made her point stick with her jumping into Luna's arms. 

He's still thinking on it later when they're in tutoring, seeing Ron show kids how to start a Shield Charm as they practice sending spells at one another. "Harry! Watch out!" He's just barely dodged a _Tarantallegra_. Heart racing, he turns to see Padma standing with a second year. Padma is immediately on the kid, whispering some heated words about aim and only pointing your wand where the hex should go. Harry's busy ignoring the burning heat on his face that has nothing to do with the missed hex.

Harry gathers himself and takes the student off to the side and begins to show them how to aim properly. Once he's got the second year shooting at a target, Harry thinks back to Malfoy. They're fine tuning the details of how they'll go about researching fairies but so far, they've decided that they'll stick to Great Britain in terms of travelling. He's not sure if Malfoy's really thought about the travelling aspects, given his status. Harry hasn't even attempted to broach the subject when they were looking up locations to figure out—and if he has to guess, Malfoy has been suggesting national parks and other areas with an air someone who knew they'd never see them. 

The other problem with it is that he'll have to stay with Harry, seeing as he's essentially homeless.

He hadn't heard about the Manor being taken away, but he'd gathered that things were from the way Malfoy acted throughout the day. Harry had tried to broach the subject but had been easily thrown off by the "Reparations have to be paid, Potter."

Their respective project partners, Seamus in particular, were going to make things interesting as well. Harry isn't sure what the outcome will be but he isn't fancying the idea of everyone being in Grimmauld during the holidays.

\--

"So, Potter has apparently agreed to his house being open for the holiday project," Draco mentions to Blaise and Pansy. They're walking the grounds outside, and Draco's a little envious of the outfits Blaise and Pansy have got on. They both look a million times warmer than his own. He's betting that the Warming Charm Blaise throws over them is for his sake, desperately making Draco wish he had his old sweater with the charm sewn in to last years. 

Normally Pansy would be on his arm, but Draco feels he'd rather jump in the lake than have that happen again.

"Hmmm...yes, Granger mentioned it a few days ago," he says. "I'm for it."

"I figured as much—want to avoid your mother again?" Pansy giggles, clearly lost in a fond memory of their last "invitation" to one. It _is_ rather enlightening...

"Lord help the fools she lets into the parlour. Lord help them," Blaise groans, throwing his hands up. "Although, if we're honest, I'm going to leave the second I get the chance and Floo to Potter's. Possibly drunk."

"Do you remember the last time you tried that," Pansy laughs, and the groan gets louder. "You ate half the powder and ended up three houses down from mine."

"You're never going to let me forget that, will you." 

"I'm not the one who whinged about his hair being ruined for six days straight!"

Tugging his hat tighter around his head, Blaise changes the subject swiftly. "What are you doing for the hols, Pans?" He does sound a little bit jealous, and it's more than just because she doesn't have to do a holiday assignment.

Pansy's holiday parties were always quite lovely, even if its been three years past the last one. She seems pretty enthusiastic about being able to host another one, and loudly complains about her mother's invitation list. Draco's trying to hold on and listen properly, and he thinks he manages pretty well. 

A few years back, and he'd have been wondering about the insane visiting schedule to work around. Hosting people at the Manor, visiting various acquaintances...all of whom Draco now knew were in cells somewhere near his old one. Three years prior, it'd been tense, and quiet around the Manor—and he doesn't like to think about when or how he might have missed the last two. 

\--

With a brief exchange between Hermione and Ron, Harry watches as they walk into the Floo. Now he's got to do what he's personally been dreading to do. "I live at 12 Grimmauld Place," he says to Malfoy, who gives pause for a second before recognition crosses his face. "Oh," Malfoy momentarily glances at his arm in question, which Harry chooses to not think about for the time being.

"Have a happy holiday, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall chimes in. Harry's slightly surprised to hear it doesn't sound strained, nor does it sound like she doesn't believe it. "Same to you, Professor," he chimes in before stepping into the Floo and shouting for home. 

Ron and Hermione are somewhere in the house, probably the kitchen if the noise is anything to go by when they arrive. Seeing as he's not quite sure they glimpsed that Malfoy is going to be _staying_ with them, he quickly leads Malfoy up the stairs before either pokes their heads out. 

"You haven't told them, have you?" Malfoy makes it sound like a dirty secret. Then again, bringing an unannounced stranger into a shared space is probably considered rude. Thinking back to Mundungus Fletcher invading his home, yeah, it's definitely rude.

Not wanting Malfoy to go anywhere unawares, he settles for the one two doors down from Ron and Hermione's, just above his. 

Malfoy doesn't look at him as he inspects the guest room, carefully wandering along the walls and inspecting every piece of furniture.

"I'm not going to give you a room full of Doxies, Malfoy," he says. The hasty cleaning spell he'd cast upon entering aside, everything has been well taken care of. They really hadn't much else to do in the last year. 

He turns around at that comment, face clearly showing what he thinks of that statement. Harry coughs. "I wouldn't, really, I wouldn't." 

Malfoy still doesn't look happy, but what he says next makes sense. "Forgive me for not trusting something that once belonged to my family, Potter."

Thinking back to the summer when they cleaned the place out, Harry voices that yeah, that's fair. 

"Hmmm…can't imagine what the Manor looks like now, either." He decides not to comment on that and stays waiting by the door until Malfoy shrugs and says, "It'll do," like it hasn't been the tensest fifteen minutes they've shared in the last month.

At first Harry is afraid he'd fear Malfoy's judgement, but now, as he watches Malfoy stare out the window, eyes flashing and darting as they take in the surroundings outside, he feels sorry that he's a part of this at all. _At least at Hogwarts he can go outside_ …he thinks, feeling like the situation is far too familiar ground for him to feel properly detached from it. He waits for Malfoy to say or do something, and when nothing happens, Harry lets it slide.

"I'll…leave you to it, then…" he trails off, walking back towards the hall. As Harry reaches the doorway, he's met with Ron and Hermione's searching looks. After a brief, momentary fight in which Harry throws Ron's rather derogatory demonstration out the window, he leans back into the doorway. "Oh—feel free to come downstairs, have a look around, what have you—not sure when we're thinking of doing food but—yeah."

Malfoy doesn't acknowledge him, still apparently lost in thought by the window.

By the time Harry gets down to the stairs Ron's had seven silent threats thrown at him alongside Hermione's insistent tugging. "Will you _let it go_ —"

"The HELL I AM—" Harry smacks him upside the head, and Ron punches him back. "No—No way Harry, the _bloody hell is he doing here—who the hell—_." They struggle for a moment and Harry has to nearly break his own leg backwards up the stairs to stop Ron from racing up them, and as Harry kicks him back, Ron tumbles into Hermione who's muttered curse rightly sets them down a couple notches. After a brief, muttered apology and Harry watching the ceiling for a second as Ron peppers her with kisses, he turns to Harry once again.

"He's my partner. McGonagall approved it. The Aurors approved it. Hell—I don't really care all that much, Ron," he says tiredly. "Can we not fight this out again?" Ron turns a classic shade of red, front teeth peeking out from below his top lip as he bites down another retort. Hermione watches him with a put out look that Harry feels he's mirroring, because, honestly, Malfoy hasn't done or said anything in weeks now. Harry's lucky if he gets more than five words out of him these days. 

Still, it is a bit unsettling to walk through his house like this; it's been a couple months, and even if he could've visited whenever he wanted, Harry wouldn't have felt the experience was the same if he'd had that privilege. There has to be something to look forward to—a break from the insanity of it all. But as he turns the corner and sees Ron and Hermione settling in much the same as Malfoy did, confused and bit out of place, Harry's mood sours. 

There's something different in the air, that's for sure. Harry just hopes they're just confused about having to host six people, and anything else that comes with that situation.

"Does anybody want some tea?" Harry nearly jumps out of his skin at Malfoy's voice behind him, and he can hear Hermione and Ron startle their way into a dresser or two. The blond wizard looks a bit better than earlier, and Harry's not sure if it's because he's been poking around where he shouldn't, or because Ron's just stubbed his toe to hell and back. 

There's an awkward silence as they all stare at each other and nothing at all at the same time before Hermione nods. "Thank you, that would be lovely."

Ron stares a second but nods mutely, and Harry shrugs at Malfoy's turned head. "Okay—I'll just—it's over that way, yeah?" Harry moves to go lead him over but is stopped by Malfoy holding a hand up to his chest lightly. "No, don't worry—I'm sure it'll be a bit more _fun_ this way," he says lightly. 

They watch him wander into the kitchen and start opening things here and there before there's a tell-tale, "Ah-hah!" 

Stepping out into the hall and looking down towards the kitchen suspiciously, Ron asks the obvious question. "You sure he's not going to poison us?"

"Ron he can't do anything—there's nothing in here to poison us with!"

"I'd beg to differ," Ron comments darkly, but Hermione shushes him. "For Merlin's sake Ron, just deal with it! You've got to be getting ready for your project anyway. Seamus and Zabini will be here tomorrow and who knows what kind of hell that will bring us."

Harry's not sure what happens in the next couple of hours after that conversation, but somehow, he manages to get to bed with a full stomach and a warm belly filled with tea. He's shifty, slightly nervous at the change of scenery. It's always been a struggle to get comfortable with changes, even if they're only temporary. Listening for the familiar and haunting sounds in the house is something Harry's never thought he'd miss. And as he hears Malfoy creaking upstairs, walking across the floors, he's confused as to why it feels cold and silent in his own bedroom.

\-- 

After the night's events, Draco tosses and turns and contemplates wandering around the house at night. This house is his family's, while also being Potter's. It's strange. He has vague memories of coming into the home when he was small but absolutely nothing else. It is all fine and dandy until Draco looks outside and sees people passing by on the street, and realizes he still won't have that freedom. Hogwarts has been just as much of a jail as this, Draco supposes, but the sheer size of it and relief at being welcomed back has given Draco enough to be at ease. The student population doesn't, and probably still won't, welcome him back in the spring. But he'd done just fine the last four months, and can do it again after this is over.

This house, though. This space, cramped and strange and dark as it is, is Draco's reality. Somehow the three of them have been classy enough not to mention leaving, or maybe they've just forgotten, but they had a pleasant enough dinner, even if conversation is muted. Draco has been careful not to tread on Weasley's toes. Granger's as well, but Weasley has always been more of a ridiculous aspect in terms of beating the shit out of him. Draco has spent much of the night awake, but what little amount he slept he dreamt of nothing but fighting.

Draco goes into the hall bath and showers after determining that no, the large groaning that came from the pipes did not mean the whole house is about to explode. He leaves the bath quickly, feeling vulnerable, walking down the hall barefooted and bare-chested, wet hair dripping loudly onto the floor. 

He jumps as one door swings open and Weasley pokes his head out of it at the end of the hallway, hair mussed and looking slightly ridiculous in the dim light of the hall. One hand rubbing tiredly at his face, he starts whisper- shouting, "Harry what the _hell are you—_ " and promptly stops at the sight of Draco.

Weasley's never seen him without a shirt on, and for some reason that makes Draco want to throw his hands up like some sort of girl to cover up. It's ridiculous, but even Weasley realizes it's strange to stare at him so long, and he really doesn't want to think about how those eyes go through a constipated emotional conflict as they flicker over his chest before hardening at the sight of his arm. Draco turns his left arm in slightly, eyes looking over Weasley's shoulder defiantly.

After a moment in which neither of them moves, Draco almost wants to say "My eyes are up here, Weasley," but it's far too early for that, so he turns into his room, silently shutting the door behind him before collapsing and sliding down the door.

Of course, Weasley will know. Of course, Granger will know—hell, half the bloody school should know if he remembers the wailing that Myrtle did as he bled out on the floor. 

\--

Draco doesn't come downstairs until hours after he hears the other three moving their way about the house. 

"Well, I suppose we can always just move Seamus next to Malfoy and then have Zabini on the top floor."

"You want Zabini on the top floor, by himself?"

"Do you want Zabini _and_ Malfoy together up there or will you rather have him near Seamus?" Weasley's quiet for a second and then he appears to agree with a rather ghastly look crossing his face. "Right, then." 

"Hmmm…"

"That's all you've got to say, Malfoy?"

He bites back his initial retort about thinking before speaking, but still, Draco lets the awkward silence hang for longer than necessary. "I'm just wondering what time the other two will get here and what the plan will be then. I can't imagine it's going to go well, given Finnegan's penchant for blowing things up and Blaise's rather tasteless talent for being, well— _himself_."

"The hell is that supposed to mean, Malfoy?" Potter asks.

"You've never held a conversation with him outside of trading insults, yeah?"

Potter nods his head, hand wrapping around his mug of tea before taking a rather large gulp of it. Draco almost smiles. "Then you're in for a treat—Blaise makes me look like a walk in the park, because frankly, that man will never be convinced he's in the wrong."

Granger hums conspiratorially behind her own tea and Draco has a feeling he's just sentenced the two of them to a fight no one wants to watch. It's bad enough they need to research giant spiders, heaven forbid Blaise try to _curb his personality._

"Any idea when they're going to be coming in?" It's only been twenty-three hours since he's seen them last, Draco might as well enjoy the peace and quiet. Potter shrugs, clearly indifferent, only commenting that they should be there sometime on Thursday. 

That's when it comes back to him—it's December 22rd. Just prior to Christmas Eve. Of course the others wouldn't get there until later that week. Draco hasn't even thought to ask about when Potter wanted to start. Although if Draco has to guess from the somber feeling in the house, no one's felt like celebrating in quite some time. He tries not to think about his part in that, because the last holidays he can remember involve an Azkaban cell where he probably didn't even realize what day it was, and the one before that involved the Dark Lord living in his home, which is fairly regrettable. The one before that, his father has still been in prison and _that_ visit had been lovely—the one before that, well, Draco's avoided dealing with this for the last three weeks, surely another two days isn't much more.

"Malfoy?"

Draco turns what he hopes is a neutral face on them. It's not worked, because even as he flicks his eyes across the three of them, Draco swears he can feel awkwardness. "What?"

Granger takes a deep breath before asking, "Are you alright?" It's tentative, like she isn't sure she wants to hear the answer. Draco can't blame her, not really. Of all the people here, she's the most right to hate him. Although she's spent far more time with him than Weasley and looks much better off than him right now.

There's an older part of himself that wants to say, why yes, Draco's always wanted to be homeless, essentially broke, and forced to live in a home filled with people that at best hate him. But no. Tonight, he's too tired to do that.

"Maybe," he says. Without waiting for a response, Draco finishes his tea and goes up the stairs.

No one says anything, and it's just as well.

\--

It's an awkward affair even for Potter, Draco thinks the next morning. Although he's too busy being shocked, not having heard anything past him saying "I think I'm going to stay behind this time." He's incredibly grateful he'd just gone to sit in the kitchen area with no intention of moving from there for two days when he hears it, because the argument that ensues is loud, awkward, and entirely unnecessary. 

"Are you bloody mad, Harry? What the—what the devil am I supposed to tell everybody!?"

"Ron will you just shut it—no, really, be quiet. You're screaming in a house with only four people, the neighbors don't need to hear you. And Harry—" he hears Granger break off slightly, "are you sure? Because there's no reason, you're family—"

"Of course he is —and you should really—I mean—" and Draco's blessed with silence. 

Whether someone's gone and cast a _Muffiliatio_ or just closed the door, he's not sure. He certainly isn't feeling uncomfortable—he should be excited. He has a whole house to himself, far as he knows, what on _Earth_ is he going to—

Draco's not sure where the tears came from but suddenly they're there, tiny hot trails rolling down his cheeks, no doubt making his face flush. 

Of course Potter comes back from the the fireplace not a moment later and walks over towards him, blessedly silent as he sits down. 

After a couple of tense minutes he gestures between the two of them. "Is this going to be alright?" 

Draco considers the two of them, having survived this long together. Surely they can handle two days alone, he thinks, hurriedly scrubbing at his eyes. 

"Maybe. Can't imagine I'll be very good company."

"I'm not necessarily looking for that," Potter replies. "Maybe just looking for company in general."

Draco stares at him a bit and sniffles. "Right. Okay."

Potter looks over his way, over his shoulder, really, like there's something particularly interesting in the kitchen. He flicks out his wand and sends his things upstairs, Draco wanting to chuckle a bit at the odd clunking he hears echoing throughout. 

"Do you want something for breakfast, then? I can grab us something—I honestly was thinking nothing but sugar." He looks around the room a bit, as if trying to find something. "Maybe alcohol."

Draco considers this, looking down at his hands again and clenching and unclenching them. "You realize I can't really pay you back, Potter?" He shrugs in response. "Doesn't matter. I just want to stock the fridge and if I can find another excuse to get more nonsense I'll take it."  
He stares at him.

"No, honestly. What do you want—I agreed to host you Malfoy, I've not given you the Doxie room yet, have I?" He nearly smiles at him, and Draco can definitely feel the pain, the pity, and the strange wave of uncertainty at the situation between them. But it's a start.

"Whatever Honeydukes has on sale then—chocolate. Should help a bit with the—uh -" He gestures in general at the empty house and Potter does laugh this time.

"Good point. Well." He gets up and makes towards the door. "I'll be back before you know it. Hopefully Honeydukes isn't too packed right now." Draco groans involuntarily. "That's like—"

"Almost impossible—but hey, I'm me. Might be useful for once."

\--

Harry doesn't actually take that long at Honeydukes. The second he steps it, he realizes that the stores are rather empty, one, given that it's the morning, and two, that it's already so close to holidays. 

Thankfully he doesn't see anyone there, but the store owners are more than happy to wish him a good holiday and throw in an extra block of chocolate for the road. It's a bit ridiculous, he thinks as he wanders around sucking on a blood lollipop, given that he'd bought almost three pounds of the stuff, fully intent on baking cookies with it later. 

It's an absolute mad house at the grocers down the street from the house, though. Harry's not proud of it, but he may have accidentally decked an old woman in the head. Over a treacle tart tray. It isn't pretty.

But even as he's there, standing in line and waiting for the till, Harry catches snippets of all the festivities people around him are having. Somebody's party, someone's gone abroad, somebody may have gotten engaged...etc, etc, etc. And there he is—getting sweets and some passable meals for the next few days for him and his roommate and their rag tag bunch. Who Harry apparently loses all sense of respect over when he sees the bastard crying.

Merlin, they're a bloody mess.

\--

When Harry returns, Malfoy's not in the sitting room anymore, and he panics for a second, sending the food over to the kitchen and yelling for him. 

"Malfoy? Hey—I'm back! There's—well, there's a lot of chocolate," he mumbles to himself, checking the bag. Did he—yes, Harry did shrink the package. Okay, maybe there's a bit more than he thought. 

"Bring it up!" 

And so Harry finds himself sitting on the floor of his bedroom, playing chess with Malfoy while they share a ridiculous pile of chocolate, lollies, various small tarts, and some ginger cookies. 

It's fun enough, he supposes. Malfoy's positively slaughtering him, winning the last five games with ease and not even remotely phased by Harry's insistence he can beat him. Although, as Harry watches the king get cut in half, yet again—this time by Malfoy's bishop, of all bloody things, he's thinking some.

Harry hasn't bought any gifts. He'd not thought about it at all, and Ron and Hermione hadn't said anything either. They'd all been too busy with classwork and fighting that last minute Transfiguration assignment. Not to mention the Potion's project logistics. Now that he's looking at Malfoy, digging through the pile of sweets—

"Did you and Zabini, or Parkinson, ever—did you plan anything?" Malfoy immediately stops digging and looks up.

"Plan what?"

Harry shrugs. "Y'know—a, a party or a gift exchange...anything? You all used to talk so much coming up on exams—"

"Hmmm—no. Can't exactly do any of that now, can I?" He shakes his arm a bit and the trace brace rattles some.

Ah—right. Malfoy's effectively a prisoner in Harry's house—and isn't _that_ just a thought. "Oh. Well, when Zabini gets here—you mentioned something about him being drunk?"

Malfoy laughs at that. "Yes, yes Blaise will more than likely be blasted off his arse." He sighs. "Can't very well tolerate what his mother does at her parties. Just stands in a corner and drinks until he can't remember he's related to her." 

Harry stares. "What?"

"She's a bloody minx, likes to kill one husband after the next and suck them dry of everything. Oh, Potter now—don't give me that look—she's never been caught. The one time we went to try and save him from what he said was terribly boring, we ended up walking into an orgy."

Harry's not sure where to look after that admittance, so he just looks between the board and Malfoy a few times before settling on moving his pawn forward. "That's...interesting…" he mutters, face heating some.

"It is, certainly." He laughs. "Had to slam the door closed like a bunch of idiots and Merlin, the _screaming_ that I got that night from my mother—my—" He stops, hand hovering over the piece he is going to move before dropping it by his side. 

"She told us we deserved whatever horrors we'd seen, shouldn't have been sneaking off from the party areas," he continues, "and then she promptly told us about the time they'd actually been involved in one of those to scare us from ever wanting to run off again." 

Malfoy scrunches his face up, and Harry's probably doing the same thing at the mental image alone, let alone what the actual orgy looked like. Half afraid Malfoy might start crying again, Harry quickly runs down and pulls the Tesco bag out of the fridge before bringing it up with a couple of floating mugs.

"You've gone and bought… _the hell is Tesco's_?" Malfoy's looking at the bag Harry's just dumped on the floor, watching him pour the store bought stuff into a glass and add a bit more rum and cinnamon. 

Harry just about inhales his own glass. "It's a Muggle market, now drink—it's just eggnog with a bit more rum."

"You've literally just poured this out of a box, Potter. What in the world—"

"It's not elf made but it's enough for me. Now drink or move your damn piece already." At Harry's tone Malfoy moves his piece almost immediately, taking yet another one of Harry's. It's a couple moves more before Malfoy takes a hesitant sip, smacking his lips after he coughs slightly.

"You're a bit heavy handed there—Potter." Harry only laughs, eating another piece of chocolate as they continue to play. It's some time later, when they've gone through a handful of games and have burned a small hole in his floor from exploding snap that Harry thinks to mention it.

"You know, your mother—" Harry can't even look at Malfoy now, too afraid of the immediate rebuke. "I'm sure if I hadn't told her you were safe we'd be in a very different place than we are right now," he says. 

"She cared an awful lot about you. Even from the perspective of an outsider."

Malfoy doesn't say anything in response, but he does suggest they try to eat something else a little while later, complaining the buzz is getting a bit too strong for him. 

\--

Christmas Eve with Potter is dreadfully boring. It's wonderful. Draco doesn't see a single decoration in the house and it's scary how alright Draco is with that. He's also dreadfully hungover, so maybe he's just thankful the inanely bright lights of Hogwarts aren't around them. 

But as he's known for a while now, Draco's up first, making a slow descent to the kitchen in search of anything to ease the severe hunger in his stomach. With only Potter around the house is fairly spooky still, but at the same time, Draco's become so used to the silence he's offered in the kitchens he supposes it's for the best. 

After casting a couple of Healing Spells over himself in lieu of a Hangover Potion, Draco settles in the sitting room with a cup of tea, fighting his stomach. Thinking back on the night before, it's both similar and very different to every other hangover he's experienced. One, he isn't drinking alone and it'd been for a, should he say, therapeutic cause. Either way they'd opened up to one another more than before. Secondly, the emotional aspect of it has come out some, especially after Potter's comment.

Draco has made the mistake of desperately trying to divert the topic and asked Potter about his Christmas'. There is something deeply unsettling about Potter living in his godfather's house, sleeping in what used to be his room. It has clearly made Potter uncomfortable, but somehow they'd gotten into the Black family tree talk and Draco had, embarrassingly enough, gone on a damn lineage rant. 

And Potter had just let him, for who knows how long.

Merlin, they're a bloody mess. They've got to deal with visitors coming back now, and then it's going to be back to business as usual. Figuring he's got maybe an hour before Potter wakes up and then another seven or so until Blaise does his usual appearance, Draco settles down in the living room with the W.H.I.F.F. guide and a few spare texts to see if they've missed a possible interview opportunity.

It's not quite as warm as sitting around in Potter's room, but it'll do.

\--

"I mean, you did say that he would arrive wasted, but I wasn't really expecting—"

"What? You've never had to fight your friends in order to get them to go to bed?"

Harry coughs. "I've never had to send a tripping jinx at Ron to stop him from maiming himself going up the stairs!"

Malfoy looks at the stairs and then back at him. "Are you sure? Because I feel like you're lying—even the slightest drink makes these things look dangerous."

"Positive."

Malfoy makes a humming noise, clearly tired now that they've had the action of the day done and over with. "I think I'm going to go have that tea you suggested earlier."

"Yeah. Might help prepare for the others. Hopefully Seamus isn't—actually no, Seamus will probably be worse."

"Oh that's just—"

"You'll be fine. Zabini's more theatrical, Seamus is just...Seamus."

"This is a man that's known for explosives, Potter."

Harry has nothing to say to that, and neither does his hangover. He just walks into the kitchen and leans against counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. Malfoy follows in some time later, after Harry's poured them some water and is now watching him put the bags in.

"Milk? Sugar—what?"

"Both, why not. Thank you."

When Hermione and Ron arrive, it's to the sight of Harry and Malfoy playing chess in the living area now. 

Ron seems to take this as a challenge, outrage plain on his face, but he just sends Malfoy a strange look before sitting down in front of them.

"How'd everything go around here?"

Harry shrugs as he moves his pawn. "It was quiet. Didn't really do much at all."

"Got a little plastered, which, that was nice," Malfoy murmurs, taking the pawn with ease. After, he turns to Ron. "And how were your holidays?"

\--

The next morning, Harry and Malfoy use a Portkey point near his house to go to a national park in Yorkshire. As they're told by the Auror authorizing the use of it, if they're a second late, they're going to be surrounded within minutes, regardless of the situation. With a dark look towards Malfoy, he hands them a wrinkled scarf. 

"Do take care to remember you are still being monitored, Malfoy."

Harry's about to protest about the automatic assumption of guilt, but Malfoy grabs him and the Portkey eagerly. He doesn't have time to ask anything, either, as the scarf whisks them away.

To his great surprise and amusement, Malfoy is just as coordinated as he is when it comes to Portkey travel. That is to say, not at all. Muttering obscenities about how he's already soaked with snow, Malfoy's already casting Warming Charms over them while Harry checks the area.

Harry starts walking towards the forest, away from the path that led them there. When he doesn't hear Malfoy following him, he turns around. "What? Having second thoughts?"

"This isn't…weird for you, is it?"

Although he's never seen him look particularly interested in visiting a dark place, he's looking at Harry like he's expecting him to—to—Harry doesn't know what, really. If Harry tries, _really_ tries, he might think Malfoy cared.

"Well." He stops, rubbing his hands together and licking his lips to try and stop them from chapping ridiculously in the cold. "There's no bogeyman in the woods now, is there?"

"…bogeyman?"

"It's a Muggle term—just a general monster that hides under your bed and will eat you if you get out at night," Harry answers. Of course, he's never had a bed high enough to speak of, and he's not even sure there will have been space for one in the cupboard. By the time Harry got his own room he was also pretty sure Voldemort was more terrifying than anything the Dursleys could've dreamt up.

"I was going to say—not even sure the Dark Lord was capable of having them," he half mutters under his breath and Harry truly wants to laugh but all that comes out is a half-breath that can sounds like a cough. They keep walking into the woods along the trail and follow the map they'd received at the entrance, now displaying the magical entities found after a quick tap from Malfoy's wand. After a few minutes he hears Malfoy muttering to himself again. "Lethifolds." Harry blinks and turns around to stare at Malfoy. "What?"

"Lethifolds. I guess—that will be the wizarding answer to the Muggle…bogeyman. I don't believe a Dementor resembles anything that could hide under a child's bed."

"How the hell does a Lethifold, then?"

"It's a carnivorous fucking cloak, Potter. It's a legitimate shadow monster," Malfoy throws back at him. Harry has to agree there, and of course he will be having this conversation in the middle of nowhere with an ex-Death Eater. Of course, he's talking about carnivorous cloak monsters during a research trip to find fairies—because, when the _hell_ has Harry ever has a straightforward life?

Merlin, he hates magic sometimes.

"Follow the fucking butterflies, then, Potter," Malfoy huffs under his breath and continues marching forward, boots barely crunching the snow beneath them even though he's got to be nearly stamping his way through the woods. 

Harry starts whistling a little tune to the phrase and apparently either the cold or Harry's inability for music gets to Malfoy after a few minutes because he stops abruptly and pointedly asks him to "Shut the Hell up!"

"I wasn't saying anything!"

"You were humming! Obnoxiously—for fucks sake Potter we're trying to catch a glimpse of some beast in the middle of a magical forest and you think it wise to SING?"

Harry eventually gets bored of it and starts a new plan. He'll mess about and disappear on him, then. Harry's not sure why he's so desperate for Malfoy's attention lately, Merlin knows they've tried to avoid one another for years prior. Although if there's one thing he's noticed it's that Malfoy is very different when there's not another person around. Go back just three years and Harry never would've guessed that. 

He silently slips the cloak out and puts it on, walking normally so as not to raise suspicions. After a few moments in which Malfoy seems fully intent on ignoring him, Harry taps him and then steps to the side.

"Potter what did. Potter, what the fuck," Malfoy hisses, eyes widening in fear almost immediately. He spins in a circle, eyes narrowing as he gets more frustrated.

"Potter. For fuck's sake don't tell me—you bastard you haven't—"

Harry throws a snowball from the opposite direction at him and he's able to watch as Malfoys entire body language changes in slow motion. He's immediately on alert as the snow hits him, but then Harry feels Malfoy's eyes on him and he can see the exact moment he experiences Deja Vu.

Eyes narrowed and face flushed from anger and the cold, Malfoy curses. "Oh you bloody mother fucking—" Harry apparently hasn't counted on Malfoy doing anything outside of punching him, because he's completely taken off guard by the swift kick to the stomach. Breath taken away and pain coursing through his body as he gracelessly slips and falls into the pathway, Harry lets out a short breath. 

Ah, yes. On his back underneath the invisibility cloak in pain because of Malfoy? This—this is an experience Harry can work with. When the stinging pain hasn't gone away and Malfoy's not stuck around to admire his handiwork this time, Harry groans and tries to get up.

Only to get punched in the face this time, nose breaking as he swings and snaps Harry's nose to the right. Harry reels, head thunking painfully back into the snow and wincing as his vision whites out for a painful, bright second. 

"The FUCK– aagh—Mahfoy—why woul' you –"

"That's for the first time you did that—you _absolute shit_." Harry glares at him and it takes everything in him not to retaliate but the last thing he needs is an inquiry as to why they were brawling in the middle of the woods. His face is throbbing, blood turning icy cold as it spills from his nose and numbs his face.

They stare at each other for what feels like far too long. Malfoy either becomes bored or gets sick of staring at Harry because he throws an _Episkey_ at his face before Harry's has the sense to block it. "Ah!"

Merlin, he hates medicinal magic. Or anything to do with bones. No, really, Harry hates specifically anything to do with broken or re-growing bones. "There. Might've made an improvement, actually."

"The hell do you need that stupid cloak for now, anyway?" Harry loves how he knows it both irritates and impresses the hell out of Malfoy. 

"If it can cheat Death, I reckon it can cheat some fairies, Malfoy. Shouldn't be too hard to snag one for a second, now."

"What -" Malfoy blinks and looks at the cloak in shock before shaking off Harry's comment, "Did you read _anything_ at all in the W.H.I.F.F. guides?"

"Yeah, yeah I did," Harry insists. And he did—most of the preservation guides, however, just stated different ways that fairy preservation contributed to wizarding society. Which is somewhat helpful but doesn't help their cause in the slightest. "Most of the hippy comments just say to avoid fairies and let them be, though."

Malfoy groans. "You didn't read them, then. _Great._ Here's an idea— _the fairies can find you based off scent and not your appearance you fool_." 

Harry's hit with a spell he doesn't recognize, " _Obscuro Naturalis_ " and then watches as Malfoy hits himself with the same thing before throwing the cloak back to him.

"Now that that's settled...back on track, and try to be quiet, will you? I'm not keen on staying out in this longer than necessary." How on Earth Harry can be anything other than quiet when he can barely register that Malfoy's next to him?

\--

When they Apparate back on the doorstep, Malfoy undoes the spell and suddenly Harry's overwhelmed with how much he can _feel_. Standing next to Harry, Malfoy looks a little dazed, eyes bright and hazy at the same time. They're both flushed from the cold, and wow, Harry can totally count the snow caught on Malfoy's eyelashes if he wanted to. He kind of wants to. 

Unfortunately for him, Malfoy takes a heavy step towards the door, away from Harry, and makes his way back up the stairs to his room without a glance back.

When Harry makes his way into the hall, feeling empty and stuffed at the same time, Ron pokes his head out from the sitting room. "So, how did your day go, Harry?"

"We followed magical butterflies around, Ron," he mutters into his tea. Ron coughs for a second.

"You followed…the butterflies? But it's—well, I thought you were researching fairies."

"So, did I, Ron, so did I."

He doesn't mention the bogeyman joke, because even if he _knows_ Ron will find it funny, there's something special about Malfoy coming out of his shell with him, and only him.

"How about you and Seamus? Anyone manage to make a love potion?"

"Ha—funny. Actually—funny you say that—will you be willing to—

"No."

"It's an antidote, mate. Something to counteract it based off the damn moonstones, not the other way around."

Harry shakes his head. "Still no, but thanks for clarifying." When he heads into the sitting area he thinks to ask Hermione how their own project is going, but just looking at Zabini's face from over Hermione's shoulder says he'd better stay away. 

\--

"After all the threats about security, keeping me away from the public per Auror directions, and not to mention a very visceral threat coming from McGonagall herself, _you want to put me under your fucking Invisibility Cloak—which don't even get me started on that—and have me walk about Diagon with you?_ "

"How the hell else are you supposed to help with this thing?"

"I'm fine with going into the woods!"

"You've never been 'fine' with going into the woods." That gets Harry a very pointed glare and he feels a little bit better and more and more like things are going to go his way. "Besides, you've been dying to go outside anyway."

Malfoy's staring at him like he's crazy, or like he might be a hallucination. As if to test this theory, Malfoy kicks him, hard, in the shin, and Harry hisses. "What the _fuck_?"

"I'm not hallucinating, you self-righteous arse," he spits. "You're just bloody mental. Which is fine by me, I've been telling the world that for years."

Harry waves between the two of them. "And look where that got you." 

Malfoy jolts back and his face goes from incredulity to cool in seconds. "So—you're eager to put me back there, are you? _No_ , then. Fucking figure out the culture aspect by yourself because I won't jeopardize anything else for a stupid class, Potter."

He starts to walk away, and even as he reaches to tug Malfoy back, Harry wants to rip his own hair out. "Malfoy you bloody— _will you listen to me_?!"

"Get your fucking hand off me." 

Harry pulls it back. "Just, look, we can—"

"What part of the word Trace Brace are you not understanding, Potter? It's a location tracker first and foremost, you fool." Of course, Harry thinks. Of course he'd forgotten—fuck. "Unless you truly don't care that we'll both end up in Azkaban."

"No—you're right," Harry says. Malfoy is still staring at him like he's crazy, and Harry looks down at where his hand is, awkward and loosely held out. Snapping it to his side, he sighs. 

"That is stupid of me. Sorry. We'll—we'll just figure something else out." 

"Too right you will—I refuse to be stuck here doing nothing while you're out galavanting in public areas." Even when he's pissed off, Malfoy sounds haughty. Merlin.

Just listening to him Harry can tell he's jealous. Of course he'd be jealous, and Harry knows that even though he stayed behind for the holidays, it is the fact that Harry has the choice at all made Malfoy even angrier. And then he remembers how empty the house is, how many lives were lost, and all the sympathy leaves him. They're where they're at for the choices they made, no matter the influence. Malfoy got off this easy already—what else can he expect?

"Never knew you were one to try for extra work, Malfoy," he says, eyebrows raised in question. Harry watches as Malfoy's face shifts in response through incredulity, anger, distrust, and a variety of others before smoothing out.

"I'm not failing because of your shortcomings," Malfoy says turning on his heel and walking to the kitchen. Harry ignores the strange look Zabini and Seamus give him from where they're working and follows him. Malfoy's already setting up tea and scrounging through the cabinets for some food when he pulls out what Harry thought has been well hidden biscuits. He thought wrong.

Harry watches him flit about his kitchen some more before asking, "I'm sorry, what does this have to do with anything right now?"

"I'm not going to 'do nothing' while you're out, Potter," Malfoy says to the teapot as it screams at them, and really, there's something to be said for the way the steam is making Malfoy's hair fluff up. Something Harry's been waiting for for years, but he bites his tongue. 

"I'm going to figure out what you're going to ask around for while I sort through the observations and through the remainder of the guide and how it can be updated."

They walk through to the sitting room and sit across from Seamus and Zabini. 

Harry watches as Zabini eases up some and makes room for them at the table while Seamus seems to be stock still. He then frowns as Zabini reaches for the biscuit plate and gets hit for his attempt. "Ohhh—there's the rest of the biscuits— _Ow!_ —the _fuck_ Draco!"

"Food's for those set on succeeding," he says, not even looking up from where he's pulled a quill and parchment out.

"Since when do I not succeed?"

"Do tell me how that date with Greengrass went fifth year," Malfoy says casually, eyes still on the parchment as Zabini coughs. Harry feels like he wants to commiserate with Seamus but he's still a little edgy these days so he settles for just shrugging and listening to Malfoy talk.

"So, what aspects were we going to explore here— _right_ —wing size in relation to cultural significance…"

Harry reluctantly leaves for the store that afternoon. He's feeling optimistic as he walks into the Apothecary that afternoon, and is grateful that the shopkeeper is still as friendly as ever.

"I'm afraid I haven't had much of a demand for fairy wings as of late, but they're awfully popular in February, and the summer. Definitely a nice thing to help out with any vanity potions, dear—not that you need it!"

And if Harry leaves with a satisfied, slightly warm feeling that leads him straight into a Muggle sweets store thinking of Malfoy, that's between him and him alone.

\-- 

Draco thinks it's strange as he sits there in the living room, this time taking on Weasley in a chess game, that he's drinking eggnog again. Spiked almost as heavily as last time, after Weasley had gone and found the rum Potter stashed.

Blaise has glasses in all their hands before they have a chance to even think about it.

Finnegan and Granger are busy forcing Weasley and Blaise to be taste testers for the Muggle sweets Potter bought earlier. It's the strangest truce he's seen in some time, but he'll take it. Unless Weasley brings out the prank candy - then, well, Draco may actually find that even better.

\--

The next two sites they check are uneventful, and Draco's surprised at how at ease he is with it. They might not even need the additional information, but Potter suggested it, if only for the odd chance that they might find something interesting. 

"Do you just enjoy going through the woods in the cold?"

"It's better than anything else we'd be doing." Thinking of sitting inside the house while the Gryffindors go outside does sour his mood some. Draco always wanted to go places. He partially blames that on the way he grew up, always either somewhere abroad while being tutored, at Hogwarts, or at the Manor for a day or two before, yet again, going abroad until...things happened. The thought has initially made him long for those few simple weeks in between at home, and Draco hopes, that somewhere along the line, he'll grow tired of remembering the horrors that happened there. 

And then there's the fact that he's not four months out of prison in the frigid cold, yet again.

The forest is disturbingly quiet. Where the other two areas have seemed pleasant, a quiet recluse in the middle of nowhere, it feels wrong. 

Every couple of minutes Draco looks back and forth between him and Potter, him and the forest around them, feeling the hair prickling on the back of his neck. It's the cold, he tells himself. The reason Draco doesn't want to talk is because they don't. Talk, that is. It's not like he's afraid something will hear them. Or someone. The longer they keep walking and the longer he feels it, Draco tries to catch Potter's eye, but it's not working. 

He's so busy looking around them, Draco almost trips backwards over Potter crouched on the ground some minutes later. "Potter! What—the—" He's brought down onto the ground. Potter's just soaked the entirety of his trousers and robes with snow, and if every last inch of his body isn't—

"Malfoy will you just _look at_ what I found -

"The hell have you—" Potter's hand is stuck out in the snow, and Draco has to squint to see the words scrawled on it. _We're being followed_. And there it is, the last shred of hope Draco has, freezing along with the rest of him. There's barely another second to wonder about it when light comes flying towards them and he's half a hair faster than the caster. He can hear Potter throwing out his own shield spells and the residual effect of the blasts against them.

"Potter! What the hell is going on!"

" _Reducto!_ " One of the trees near them explodes, sending branches shooting out and around them. Draco dodges a massive branch aiming to crush him when he hears Potter gasp. He glances over to see Potter grasping his throat before falling backwards. " _Protego! Potter don't you—don't you bloody—_ " he hears something shooting through the fallen branches ahead of him and dives towards Potter, hand outstretched—" _PROTEGO MAXIMA!_ " 

It's not fast enough. Something gets past and he's thrown back with Potter's limp body. 

Potter's bleeding, Potter is _bleeding profusely_ , and Draco's just laying there, in the snow, body spasming in pain like an idiot. He's just managed to get himself thrown back in Azkaban for sure. No one's going to believe that Potter got hit by the man Draco just knocked out cold—of course not. They're just Dark wizard poachers, not a _Death Eater_. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—oh _shit Potter's bleeding! Did he h- did Draco hit him—No_. No he _will. Not_ —something's suddenly, terribly, terribly wrong.

The Trace Brace is crushing his lungs, no—It's making water fill up in his lungs— _God Draco's going to pass out and no one is going to know what happened…_

Potter's bruised, battered face is hazy. It hurts. That's—He's disappearing…blacking out of Draco's vision. A blur. And then, nothing.

—

When Draco comes to, he's met with periwinkle blue cotton. Specifically, the periwinkle blue sheets that St. Mungo's uses for their sickbeds. He moves, and his body painfully reminds him of what happened as he's tangled in sweat-slicked blankets from being wrapped in so many layers.

Draco groans and shifts around to lay on his back, body twitching as pins and needles prick their way through his body. Apparently, he's not the only one having issues with him moving.

"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy _don't move_!"

He instinctively freezes, joints locking painfully and the mediwitch is on him immediately. "No, no, you daft fool, I meant don't move your arms— _Christ, budge up_ ," she huffs at him. Somewhere inside, Draco wants to throw a fit at the way she's shifting him around, measuring his arms and sticking her wand in places it really shouldn't be so early in the morning. Draco nearly bites through his lip as she prods a particularly sore spot on his rib. However the second he opens his mouth, she rudely sticks a thermometer in it and Draco fights not to gag. 

"Wha—" 

"Hush! Don't talk until I'm done."

He holds a tense staring contest with her, determined not to be pushed around until she pulls it from his mouth. After shooting her a "are you done?" look, he waits. Not long after the meditwitch has left, an Auror appears, with McGonagall in tow, supposedly as a witness to the conversation and an advocate for him. 

"The Blasting Jinx broke through and apparently combined with the _Protega Maxima_ you cast up around you. Whatever instinctive magic you threw out as a last resort must've caused the Trace Brace to go off." Auror McKinnon speaks plainly, as if reading it off a docket. Draco is pretty sure he has, possibly even memorized it in hopes of finding him guilty of something.

Draco narrows his eyes. "I'm sorry—are you insulting my magical ability _and_ insinuating I somehow hurt Potter on purpose?"

"I'm just saying that instinctively you have a rather nasty habit of wanting to bite back as hard as magically possible." 

Draco hisses. "But I don't—I am _not_ —I _am not trying to_ —"

"We know you have tried incredibly hard, Mr. Malfoy. But," the Auror states, "as with every other magical person who experiences untamed magical outbursts, if your body knows it—even remembers the slightest whisper of having cast it—"

"It can recreate it, in dire events, as the body protects itself. I know." Draco sighed. "I just wish I didn't." He also wishes that his eyes aren't threatening to spew tears of anger and frustration, but there they are. Draco blinks through them and grit his teeth.

"Now what?"

The unnamed Auror turns to McGonagall and continues talking as if Draco isn't there. "Well, given that Mr. Potter is still unconscious, I'd recommend that Mr. Malfoy surrender the memory so we can get this case solved."

"Surrender," he repeats. Then he waves his hand, "Well, get me a phial, then—you want it, fine, give me my wand, I'll just—"

"It will have to be retrieved by an Auror officiate," he states, not unkindly. "Memories are such temperamental things." Draco can feel his heart dropping into his stomach as the next words fall out of the Auror's mouth, "And we wouldn't want anything tampered with in the process, now will we?"

Draco can't help but wish he knew the man's name; it's one thing to be fighting a stranger who won't ever see you again, it's another entirely to be at a disadvantage and have no inkling of what kind of person the adversary is.

"No one is going inside my head," he spits, fingers tightening and twisting the sheets beneath his hands. 

"Those are some serious words for someone who just tried to go into mine," the Auror says back. _Merlin_ , Draco hates this smiling arsehole. "I'll have you know—"

"Mr. Malfoy, _are you certain this is not something you want done_?" 

He keeps his eyes on the Auror. "Positive."

He shares a look with McGonagall, and Draco's unsurprised to see them whispering heatedly as if he isn't there. Some snippet or other about him not having his head in the right place—

Draco snaps. "Since when has _my_ sanity been the one that you rely on. Don't you have another witness to interview? Oh wait, you've never thought _he_ is particularly sane, either, but I guess he's a bit better than scum like me?"

Again, he's unsurprised at the harsh look McGonagall shoots him, nor the coloring on the Auror's face. They both hurry away and Draco knows that he probably just made things worse for himself. He's proved correct not ten minutes later when McGonagall comes back.

"You do realize that Mr. Potter is still unconscious, and will probably be, for quite some time, Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, I didn't," he says, with more severity than he wants to, but— "but then again I've not been privy to many things since I've been awake for not twenty minutes now." Her mouth thins, as if she's remembering a particularly nasty memory. Pity.

"You could have asked," she starts, "but then again you are correct in assuming it would have been in vain." She glares down at him and he's reminded of exactly why people fear her.

"I am on your side, Mr. Malfoy. I have been from the start, and although I am partly responsible for the situation you find yourselves in now, I am also the reason you have been freed. If you don't cooperate, you're going to find yourself locked away again until Mr. Potter has woken up—if there's a chance he has a memory of the event at all."

Draco knows there's only a fifty percent chance that he _won't_ have to have his mind invaded again, but it's a risk he's willing to take. Potter's come back from worse, surely his memory isn't going to be destroyed by a simple Shield Charm.

\--

Harry wakes up to the ceiling patterns of St. Mungo's, and really, at this age, he shouldn't be so accustomed to the smell of a hospital. Looking to his right he sees that there have definitely been visitors, various cards and a couple of chocolates left on the nightstand next to him. Harry thinks he's feeling pretty good for having earned at least a couple Galleon's worth of chocolate frogs and briefly wonders what happened.

He had been with Malfoy, they'd decided, apparently stupidly so, to go try another forest just in case they found something different. He remembers feeling off and thinking it was because of the hour. Of course, Harry should have known better. There's—something about his Cloak— _oh_.

Harry remembers his hands freezing after writing in the snow and the burn he felt when one of the poachers had sent out a stinging hex through their Disillusionment. And then it had rained hexes and various curses. He'd gotten hit pretty good, if the scar he feels on his neck is anything to go by—and the burn, he thinks, wincing as his skin pulls at it. 

Poor Malfoy had been sending nothing but Shield Charms up out of fear of being incapacitated by the damn _Brace_. Merlin, Harry hates that thing. 

He's still thinking about the ice hitting his face when Ron and Hermione come running down the hall towards him. 

"Harry! Thank goodness you're alright—we didn't know what to do when you weren't back! Everybody is out looking for you two!" Harry frowns, and it deepens with what Ron says next.

"We hoped that we'd find you before it got dark, but you're always finding a new way to piss the Aurors off, aren't you?" Everyone seems fairly relaxed for what just happened—Hermione's busy looking through a box of Bertie's for what Harry assumes are the lemon flavored ones, and Ron's peering at a couple of Chocolate Frog cards.

"What do you mean, everybody is out looking for us?"

"You two were gone at least three hours past the time the Portkey was supposed to take you! Whatever barrier the poachers had must have tampered with it," Hermione says.

"We'd just been out an hour when we got hit! I mean, granted, we decided to check out the area Hatch suggested—" He stops. 

"Hatch suggested what? First off, isn't he Defense, not Potions? The bloody hell would he know?" Ron stops and looks up from the card he has in his hand. 

"And you two were gone for what—"

"I'd say, six hours at least—" Harry's caught on that. Six hours—were the two of them really just wandering in the woods more than for six hours—it hadn't felt that long...

"Yeah, you were gone for six hours, how the hell does that—ohhhhh no—no, no no—"

"Yes, Ron."

"No—it's just a weird—" 

"Ron it's never a weird coincidence." 

"No, it's only what you've been suspecting for the last four months and if we learned anything about your suspicions it's that you've only a 50, maybe 60% chance of being right."

Harry stares at her. "What do I need to do to convince you? Or rather, what do I need to convince _them_?" He jerks his head towards the Aurors approaching him with McGonagall in tow, and Hermione and Ron start cleaning themselves up. 

\--

He's never been so relieved to be pulled out of a memory where he's watching himself be knocked on his arse. Because, for once, it's not Malfoy that's done it—in fact, were it not for the _Protega Maxima_ he'd thrown up, Harry reckons the slice in his neck will have been a lot deeper. 

It's sickening to watch himself bleed out, and Harry almost feels like they've intruded on a private moment with the way Malfoy's reaching for him. 

However, It doesn't take much more convincing after that to clear Malfoy of any charges against him, with a lot of backlash against the Aurors for not having recognized the effects on Hatch. Of course, it doesn't help that someone's let slip the story of Malfoy being a test subject for the Ministry's use. Harry thinks that's something Luna might have done, given that it looks like the _Prophet_ 's having to quote the _Quibbler_ on it, regrettably quoting the title _Ministry Murtlap Essence Brace Gone Wrong_ as a part of their front page 'exclusive'.

Hatch had an estranged niece, a second-year student, that died from injuries sustained during the Battle. Given the surname difference and that he's not had contact with his sister in the last thirty years, McGonagall hadn't even thought to check any familial connections. So many students had gotten hurt, or in the way of the action—whether trying to escape or to fight back, that Harry isn't surprised to hear it. 

Although, the second they mentioned that Hatch had suggested the area, McGonagall looks like she might have a heart attack. 

Having Hermione mention that they've outsmarted the Ministry less than two years after the Battle helps as well.

Apparently, somehow this girl's mother had gotten back in touch with her brother and managed to Imperius him into whispering that one little detail to Harry, and being the fool he is, Harry hadn't recognized it. Harry thought Hatch was having Malfoy investigated by Aurors, when in fact, he may have been trying to convince them something was wrong. 

Again, Harry is unsurprised that this happened. It certainly doesn't bode well with anyone who mentions that this should have stopped with the death of Voldemort. He can't begin to imagine the press nightmare McGonagall is taking now that yet another Defense Professor has managed to bring shame to Hogwarts. 

\--

Harry likes to think that they're in a much better mood once they leave St. Mungo's. Even though his own memory had been slightly foggy, it was enough for the Aurors to have little to no reason to try and hold Malfoy back. He still feels responsible. 

Malfoy's had nothing but life-threatening event after another, but after Harry questions him on how he's doing he only stares back at him and shrugs. 

They're allowed to go back to Grimmauld Place to collect their things that afternoon and recuperate a little. 

"You don't mind the travel, do you?" They're just past the entrance area to the Floo connection at St. Mungo's. "I know I was the one hit in the head but you took the—"

"Potter, I just want to get as far away as possible from here, I think I can handle whatever a Floo will throw at me after this week." He hands Harry the powder bag forcefully, and Harry drops it unexpectedly. What he doesn't expect is for Malfoy to sigh, pick it up, wrap his hand around Harry's and pull him backwards into the Floo with a quick "Grimmauld Place," thrown out. 

Harry's more than happy to disappear into flames if it means he never has to see the look on the mediwitches' faces again.

\--

Harry collides into Draco's shoulder when they tumble into his living room. Draco's momentarily disoriented as always with Floo, but after Harry tugs his hand, he realizes he's still holding on to Harry.

Flushing, he drops it quickly. "Sorry—shouldn't have—"

"It's fine!" Harry smiles. "Really, it's fine. Don't worry!"

Draco's immediately relieved, letting out a deep sigh and promptly sinking into one of the arm chairs in the living space. "Knut for your thoughts?"

"I am never listening to another Professor again."

"As in you're leaving Hogwarts—oh. Rhetorical."

"I wouldn't have much else to do—let alone anywhere to go, Potter," he says, hesitating slightly as he stares him down. " I—I don't think I'm going to want to leave Hogwarts until I know I'm not going to die trying."

"There's that, yeah."

Draco's staring at him for sure this time. "Hmmmm…"

After a few moments, Draco goes up and walks towards Harry. "Can I call you Harry?"

He's only just saved his bloody life, for a third time, Harry thinks belatedly. "Uh—sure. Mind if I," Draco nods before he even says it, "call you Draco?" 

"Not at all." He pauses, leaning in a bit closer, and Harry could be smelling the smoke that's still pouring out of the Floo, but Harry's pretty certain it's Draco. He's close enough that Harry's noticed the small spots of ash that've gotten on his cheeks. Enough that Harry's inhaling smoke-tinged, lemon scented Draco and wondering why on earth it's so comforting. Why it makes Harry want to lean in, even if—

"Thought I might try that at least once," he says, lips just above Harry's own, "before I tried this," before he kisses Harry full on the mouth. 

It's soft and hot, everything and nothing like Harry imagined. However, after a stunned moment, he's more than happy with it. So Harry places his arms tentatively on Draco's to balance himself, surprised as Draco holds him close, body twisting slightly. And Harry wants to stay wrapped in each other, chasing the wet heat of each other's mouths, biting wind-chapped lips left too long out in the cold. 

Unfortunately, Harry's neck starts to twinge some and he has to pull away. "Ah—sorry, just—my neck—it, uh—" Draco's already got his hand to the scar, murmuring a numbing spell on top of whatever the mediwitches already did.

"Don't worry, not a problem," he whispers, like he's still a bit dazed. Harry feels it too, and watches as Draco's eyes flit between his own and his lips. Lucky for him, Draco just pulls him close again, this time bringing them both down to the couch. 

"I'm sure there's going to be plenty of time to figure the rest out." Draco's fingers are massaging his neck, and Harry's just about melting into his lap at this point. "We've always been a bit dramatic, haven't we?"

"That's one hundred percent your fault you little—"

"How on _Earth_ —"

\---

Bringing Draco back with no Trace Brace has been a strange thing. Firstly, the second he'd entered through the Demeter's Landing portrait, everyone had gone to ambush Harry with hugs and concerns and Draco had had to drop his hand almost immediately. He'd then hung back behind Harry, perfectly fine to wait alongside Pansy and Blaise and embrace the subtle comfort their closeness had. 

It didn't last that long, because the second Blaise started asking him about the event, Seamus Finnegan of all people says, "And cheers, then, to Draco Bloody Malfoy, for saving the day. _Again_ , as we've all been kindly reminded."

Draco turns to the Irishman with a cautious glare, only to see him looking genuinely happy. Which is not something he is used to seeing directed at his person.

"You're a right twat—not a single one of us forgets the hell that went down two years ago. But you're clearly trying to fix it, because Harry's still around, even if he won't take a damned break from the madness," Seamus says. 

He then leaned in and threw an arm around him. "You should try Ron and I's project, Malfoy—bet it won't smell any different from your room." 

Edging away from the one-armed hug, Draco sighs shakily. "Fuck you too, Finnegan."

"That's what I like to hear! Ron—Ron we've got a taker!"

"Seamus we _are not testing it out!_ " He yells. "The last thing we need is for someone to get hurt!"

And secondly, they've become ridiculously close. After Draco found out about Harry's obsession with his shower products one afternoon he decided to just start sharing his bed with him. 

"Do you honestly have a problem with this?" Harry's just pouting at him now, he'd gotten up to properly molest the hell out of him after he'd gotten out of the shower and Draco has just ruined half the fun by spelling his hair dry.

"It's just—well it's just so much better if it you leave it dry—I'd drip all over you, you git. And then it'd get ridiculously curly."

"That's the point!" Draco snorts. "You've got three seconds to get your sweats on and get yourself over here before I go to bed alone." 

"We live in the same room, Harry."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'll charm these curtains closed!"

They've got a paper to present on Cultural and Medicinal Effects on Fairy Populations, and his work doesn't spell out something for once. Harry's just happy he'd been able to win Draco over with a blowjob to stop him from trying to make the acronym happen. Hermione hasn't been as lucky—not about the blowjobs, actually he never wants to think about that ever again—and is currently trying to poke Zabini with a figurative stick on having theirs not spelling out W.H.Y. 

Now they're both waiting outside Slughorn's office, and Draco's still rifling through their written portion, eyes scanning it relentlessly. "I still can't believe you managed to write this much in three days, you bloody maniac," he says. 

"Does it make sense?"

"Of course it makes sense—I was bloody telling you what to write!"

"Then why—Because I thought I was just rambling—you managed to make it sound sincere."

Harry blinks and decides to look over Draco's shoulder at the parchment. "...I literally was just writing down whatever you took in from the notes we made over the hols."

"Did I really make that many comments about how wing color is indifferent to the potency of the wings?" Thinking back to how much Draco yelled at the book they'd been told to use by Slughorn after they'd tested a few samples, yeah, Harry reckons he did. Before Harry can respond though, Draco's muttering under his breath.

"You think that they're going to like it?" 

"Who?" He tucks his head into Draco's shoulder a bit. "Slughorn? Of course, he's going to like it—he'd be bloody mental to not!" 

"No—I meant the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," he says seriously, shrugging him off. "I took your advice earlier—I decided to send this to them."

Momentarily shocked, Harry shakes his head to clear it and then smiles back at Draco. "That's brilliant! Really, no—that's amazing."

"You're not taking the piss?"

"No—now, I don't say anything about them _accepting_ it—ow! Fuck! I was joking—Merlin—

Harry's really not taking the piss. It's been a hard couple of months for them, even as the news that Draco's been cleared of charges brought happier times. The amount of fights that have broken out between the two of them isn't any smaller, but they're getting there. Once Hermione realized that their dynamic isn't as unhealthy as it seemed, she'd suggested that they look at what usually started their fights.

Generally speaking, the two of them were stubborn gits. If either of them got into something, it wasn't going to end until someone got hurt—and that was the problem. So even though it sounded stupid at first, once they'd heard it enough times for it to symbolise something, "Maybe" became a tie breaker. It still has some work to be done around it, but both of them are getting there. 

With happier times also came an obscene amount of hate mail. It had only taken a day for McGonagall to start screening the mail again—the first exploding letter had been enough, even if Draco had defused it. Even if Harry did have to hold him closer that night, there haven't been any nightmares, or fights, for either of them. In fact, the only thing they'd fought about recently is how to deal with Ron barging in more frequently, with a strange sense of protectiveness towards Harry that has him wanting to punch _him_ instead.

"So, my humiliation at being rejected notwithstanding, are we going to go in there and get an Outstanding on this bloody thing or not?"

He's laughing as Draco swats him with the parchment, demanding an answer, but really, this project couldn't have turned out any better. Harry couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

"...maybe?" 

\--FIN--

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment below. ♥
> 
> This work is part of HD Erised, an on-going anonymous fest. The creator will be revealed January 7th.


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